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ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

THE POEMS 

OF 

gllexanber Hatoreme 



COLLECTED AND ARRANGED 
BY 

MRS. MINNIE H. POSEY 



WITH A MEMOIR 
BY 

WILLIAM ELSEY CONNELLEY 

Author of " Wyandot Folk-Lore," " The Ingalls Memorial Volume, 
" Quantrill and the Border Wars," etc. 



Crane & Company, Printers 

Topeka, Kansas 

iqio 






Copyright 1910, 

By Crane & Company, 

Topeka, Kan. 



©CI.A273340 









MEMOIR 

OF 



2Hexanfcer Hatorence 



MEMOIR 



OF 



gjlexanfcer Hafoxzutz iJogep 



i. 

Alexander Lawrence Posey was a Creek 
Indian. 

He was a poet of the first order, a humorist, 
a philosopher, a man of affairs. He achieved 
fame as an English- Indian dialect writer and 
journalist. He was the leading man of the 
Creeks and the one great man produced by 
the Confederacy known as the Five Civilized 
Tribes. 

Posey was born in what is now Mcintosh 
County, Oklahoma, eight miles west of Eu- 
faula, August 3, 1873. He was accidentally 
drowned in the North Canadian river, near 
Eufaula, May 27, 1908. 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Posey's father was Lewis H. Posey, a 
Scotch-Irish native of the Indian Territory, 
who claimed to be one-sixteenth Creek blood. 
The elder Posey was born in the Creek coun- 
try about the year 1841, and, his parents 
having died when he was a child, he was 
reared by a Creek woman who lived near Fort 
Gibson. It is quite probable that he had no 
Indian blood, for his children are officially 
enrolled as of half Creek blood by the Dawes 
Commission. His parents wandered into the 
Creek country from Texas, and little is now 
known of them. He was a jolly, mirth-loving 
man, who never lost an opportunity to per- 
petrate a practical joke. For some time he 
was a Deputy U. S. Marshal at Fort Smith. 
After his marriage to a Creek girl he estab- 
lished himself on a large ranch at Bald Hill, 
up the Canadian some eight miles west of 
Eufaula, where he lived until his death. He 
is said to have been the only white man of 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

his time who could speak the Creek language 
perfectly. He attended a school taught by 
one Lewis Robertson, and there learned to 
read and write English, and he secured some 
knowledge of arithmetic. He is said to have 
been rather unruly at school, and it is re- 
lated that when Robertson went away to get 
married he left his school in charge of Mrs. 
Mary Herod. She found it necessary to bring 
Posey up to the front and seat him where she 
could have an eye on him all the time, it be- 
ing otherwise impossible to maintain any 
semblance of order in the school. 

The mother of the poet is still living. She 
is the daughter of Pohos Harjo, but her Eng- 
lish name was Nancy Phillips. She is a Creek 
of full and pure blood. She belongs to the 
Wind Clan, the strongest clan of the Creeks, 
and is a member of the Tuskegee Town or 
Band of the Muskogee Nation. She was 
married to Lewis H. Posey about October, 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

1872, when but fifteen years old. Her famous 
son was born when she was in her seventeenth 
year. 

The Harjo family is noted as one of big 
warriors, and is the oldest of the Muskogees 
or Creeks. It was also the largest as far back 
as we have any knowledge of this people, the 
tribal census of 1832 showing almost one- 
fourth of the tribe as members of it. This 
proportion diminished up to the time of mak- 
ing the final rolls, but even these show the 
family to be very large. 

It is recorded of Mrs. Posey that she was 
a devoted mother, as most Indian women are. 
She gave her whole time to the comfort of her 
family, and saw to it that her children had at 
all times an abundance of wholesome food. 
If there was little left from the midday meal 
she would often bake an extra pan of bread, 
that they might have all they wished to eat 
until supper was served. She was a tidy 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



housekeeper, and the dirt supposed to be in- 
digenous to an Indian dwelling was not to be 
found in her home. She was careful of her 
personal appearance, and had the Indian fond- 
ness for decided colors. In hot weather she 
would frequently put cold water on her head 
and the heads of her children, believing it a 
protection from extreme heat. She is a very 
sincere and devout Christian and a member 
of the Baptist Church. Once she was in the 
house of a white woman who was dying, and 
who requested that some one should pray for 
her. Mrs. Posey offered the prayer, speaking 
in her own tongue, and those present always 
remembered the earnestness and eloquence of 
her appeal for the dying woman. 

Concerning his parents I find this written 
by Posey: 

"I was born near Eufaula, in the Creek 
Nation, Indian Territory, August 3, 1873. 
Both my parents were Creek Indians, but 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

they belonged to different clans, my father 
being a Broken Arrow, and my mother a 
Tuskegee. My father also possessed a per- 
centage of Scotch-Irish blood, but my mother 
is a pure-blood Creek Indian. My grand- 
parents came from Alabama, the former home 
of the Creek people. My father was a self- 
educated man of uncommon intelligence, with 
a philosophical and scientific turn of mind, 
while my mother, though uneducated and un- 
able to speak a word of English, is a woman 
of rare native sense." 

The statement that "Broken Arrow" and 
"Tuskegee" are the names of clans in the 
Creek social organization is a slip of the pen 
of the poet. He had in mind the "Bands" or 
"Towns" into which the tribe is divided for 
the purposes of civil government. And I am 
satisfied that his father had no Indian blood. 

II. 

Of these parents came the poet. He seems 
to have been a child of deep feeling, very 
quick and accurate observation, and often self- 



IO 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

conscious and reflective. He was sensitive 
and reticent and an enthusiastic lover of 
nature — streams, hills, prairies, trees, flowers, 
birds, animals, the tangled wildwood, the 
heavens at night, and the magnificent cloud- 
displays seen in his native land. But, with 
all these, he was a genuine boy. From his 
father he had inherited a sense of humor and 
a love for practical jokes. He was in much 
innocent mischief from the time he could run 
about, and as the good old law of punishment 
for disobedience was in vogue in the Posey 
household, few months passed that did not 
bring him a whipping. This punishment was 
administered in a proper spirit and was whole- 
some correction. The boy was not humili- 
ated, nor was the natural inclination of his 
mind repressed. He was never stubborn or 
unreasonable, and resentment and malice were 
not in him. If his dress became soiled the 
least bit he would cry for a clean one. 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

The companion of the poet's childhood and 
youth was Tom, a full-blood Creek boy, an 
orphan taken into the Posey home and reared 
as one of the family. Once Mrs. Posey set 
these boys to work in the garden. After di- 
recting them as to their task she went into the 
house, saying that she would return in due 
time to see what progress they made. In- 
stead of bending to their work they spent the 
time in digging a hole in the garden-path, 
which they covered over with small sticks and 
earth. When Mrs. Posey returned she fell 
into this hole, to the great amusement of the 
thoughtless and mischief - loving lads. But 
there was a stout paling fence about the gar- 
den, and they could not escape; they were 
caught and soundly whipped. 

On another occasion when she had put them 
to some task, which they went about with 
that deliberation which marks the labor of 
boys on the old homestead, she remarked that 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

they moved about as though they had stones 
tied on their backs. Here was a suggestion. 
When she had gone back into the house the 
boys went to the barn-lot and spent the time 
until her reappearance tying stones on their 
backs and carrying them about. 

For summer wear Mrs. Posey made the 
boys a single flowing garment which reached 
to the heels. Memory of these remained with 
the poet, and in after years he said of them: 

"It is enough to say, concerning my youth, 
that I was raised on a farm and was accounted 
a pretty weedy crop. The cockle-burrs and 
crab -grass grew all the more prolifically after 
I had been given a good thrashing. Tom, an 
orphan boy adopted by my father, was my 
youth-long companion, and I often look back 
to the 'days of the lost sunshine,' when we 
romped in our long shirts, or 'sweeps/ as we 
called them, which my mother fashioned for 
our use. These shirts or 'sweeps' were long, 
flowing garments, made on the order of a tunic, 
but longer and more dignified. There was a 
vast freedom in these gowns ; freedom for the 



13 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

wind to play in, and they were so easily thrown 
aside at the 'old swimmin' hole.' We looked 
forward with regret to the time when we would 
have to discard them for jeans coats and 
trousers and copper-toed boots, though these 
were desirable to chase rabbits in on a snowy 
day. Those who have never worn 'sweeps' 
have never known half of the secrets whispered 
by the winds of boyhood." 

Until he was some twelve years old Posey 
spoke only Creek, the language of his mother. 
Like her, he could understand English fairly 
well, but its construction was so entirely dif- 
ferent from his native tongue that he feared to 
trust himself in the use of it. The Indian is 
extremely sensitive to ridicule, and this often 
prevents his efforts to speak the language of 
the white man ; and this is especially true of 
Indian women. They, and sometimes the men, 
will pretend to an ignorance of English and sit 
taciturn and unresponsive when addressed in 
that language, though they may understand 



14 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

it perfectly and speak it fairly. That Posey 
so mastered a language which may be said to 
have been alien to him that he wrote readily 
and elegantly its most difficult form of com- 
position, is a mark of the genius of the man. 
His first use of English was compelled by his 
father, and is thus described by him: 

"My first teacher was a dried-up, hard-up, 
weazen-faced, irritable little fellow, with an 
appetite that caused the better dishes on my 
father's table to disappear rapidly. My 
father picked him up somewhere, and seeing 
that he had a bookish turn, gave him a place 
in our family as a private teacher. From him 
I learned the alphabet and to read short sen- 
tences, but I never spoke any English until I 
was compelled to speak it by my father. One 
evening, when I blurted out in the best Creek 
I could command, and began telling him about 
a horse-hunt, he cut me off shortly: 'Look 
here, young man, if you don't tell me that in 
English after supper I am going to wear you 
out.' I was hungry, but this put an abrupt 
end to my desire for the good things I had 
heaped on my plate. 



*5 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



"I got up from the table and made myself 
useful — brought water from the well, turned 
the cows into the pasture — thinking may- 
be this would cause him to forget what he 
had said. My goodness, however, was with- 
out avail, for as soon as he came from the table 
he asked me in a gentle but firm voice to re- 
late my horse-hunt. Well, he was so pleased 
with my English that he never afterward al- 
lowed me to speak Creek." 

Here we have the account of Posey's first 
experience with a teacher and the progress 
he made, which was limited enough. But it 
must not be supposed that he had learned 
nothing of worth in his childhood. His 
mother is familiar with all the mythology and 
folk-lore of the Creeks. She is far above the 
average in intelligence, and as a story-teller 
she is unsurpassed by any of her people. Sit- 
ting about the blazing fagots in the open fire- 
place on the long evenings of winter, she told 
her children all the legends of the Creeks, — 
their migrations, their simple and happy life 

16 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

in the primitive forests before it was con- 
taminated by the vices of the white man, their 
proud tribal history of the days when they 
were free men and lords of the earth, creation 
myths, ghost and fairy stories, — all the lore 
of an ancient and imaginative people. 

It all depends on who hears a story. The 
old parable of the sower is the law of the in- 
tellect — most of the seed falls on stony ground 
and brings forth nothing. A little falls on 
fertile soil and yields increase an hundred fold. 
To the sensitive mind of this Indian boy these 
tales of ancient days revealed a new world, 
peopled with characters as fascinating and 
fantastic as any Shakespeare ever saw in the 
magic realms of his creation. Had not death 
intervened, these would sometime have stood 
before us in the matchless array and imagery 
of genius. Even as it was, they stirred the 
soul of this Creek boy and became the in- 



17 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

spiration of that delicate perception of nature's 
charms which he has recorded for us. 

III. 

Posey did not begin to discover himself 
until he was sent to the Indian University 
(Baptist), at Bacone, in the suburbs of Musko- 
gee. This school was founded in 1880, for 
the training of native young men and women 
for Christian work among the Indian people. 
A. C. Bacone was its president and its mov- 
ing spirit. Young Posey was sent there in 
1890 — when he was seventeen. He was then 
a reserved and timid boy, with no thought 
whatever of the possibilities he possessed. 
Under the direction of President Bacone, 
Posey soon began to take good rank in the 
life and work of the University. He de- 
scribes his life there very briefly, saying: 

" When I was old enough to leave home my 
father sent me to a public school at Eufaula, 



18 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

where I learned enough to enable me to enter 
a second academic grade at the Indian Uni- 
versity. I remained there about five years. 
During my stay at the University I acted as 
librarian on Sundays. I set type after school 
hours on week days for a little paper called 
the Instructor, published by the faculty." 

Some copies of The B.I. U. Instructor have 
come into my hands. The paper was a 
monthly four-column folio, eleven by fourteen 
inches in size. M. L. Brown and C. H. Maxon 
were the editors, and the first number of the 
paper must have been published in October, 
1 89 1. Not only did Posey set type on this 
paper, but his first literary efforts to see the 
light were published in it. These were usually, 
but not always, in verse. In the number for 
October, 1892, he published "The Comet's 
Tale," a poem of near three columns, which 
gives the Indian tradition of the appearance 
of a great comet previous to the coming of the 
ships of the white men to discover America. 



19 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

It is no inferior production, though not at all 
equal to his later work. In the number for 
December, 1892, he published "The Indian: 
What of Him?" an optimistic article in prose. 
Also "The Sea God," an Indian legend, in 
verse. In the January, 1 894, number appeared 
his " Death of a Window Plant," the first of his 
poems to attract more than local attention. 
This was published far and wide, with com- 
ments most flattering to the young poet. In 
the following March the Instructor contained 
"The River Strange," a poem of some merit, 
and "Fixico Yahola's Revenge," the story of 
a warrior who assumed the form of a bear. 

The numbers mentioned above are all that 
I have seen of the Instructor, and judging 
from the contents of those it is safe to say that 
Posey wrote much for the paper. At the time 
of his graduation (in 1895) ne was we ^ known 
to all the people of the Five Civilized Tribes, 
and he was in great favor with his own people. 

20 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

IV. 

When Posey left school he entered Creek 
politics. In September, 1895, he was elected 
to a seat in the House of Warriors, the popular 
branch of the Creek Legislature. He was sent 
a delegate to every council or conclave con- 
vened in the Indian Territory to discuss the 
status or policy of the Indians or to take con- 
certed action in their interest. 

V. 

In 1896 Posey was Superintendent of the 
Creek Orphan Asylum at Okmulgee. It was 
in this year that he was married. Of this 
event I find the following entry in his Journal, 
under date of January 4, 1 897 : 

"I have nowhere mentioned my 'better 
half.' The story of our courtship and marriage 
would make a readable romance. I was in- 
troduced to her one morning, nearly two years 
ago, by J. N. Thornton, 'ye' editor of the 
Indian Journal, at breakfast in a hotel at 

21 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Eufaula. The beauty of the young school- 
teacher thoroughly charmed me ; and, though 
I saw her frequently, I could not sufficiently 
overcome my Indian nature to talk with her. 
She went away. I thought of her constantly ; 
would sometimes grow anxious to declare my 
love by letter. Two months passed, and she 
returned to take up her work. One day I 
made it convenient to pass the school-house. 
I got a glimpse of her as I hurried by on 
'Bailie,' and another as I returned. My love 
grew deeper. Three months later I was 
elected to the position I now hold. One night 
I was at Eufaula, and by chance met her. I 
offered her a place in my school; she ac- 
cepted it, and, when summer was come again, 
'two hearts beat as one.' " 

The young lady was Miss Minnie Harris, 
of Fayetteville, Arkansas, and the wedding 
was on the 9th of May, 1896. Concerning 
her acquaintance with Posey and her marriage 
to him, Mrs. Posey wrote me as follows: 

"I met Mr. Posey in Eufaula, in July, 1895. 
I saw little of him, though, until in January, 
1896, when I was employed by him to act as 



22 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Matron of the Creek Orphan Home at Okmul- 
gee. He would read to me, and he asked my 
opinion of all that he wrote. He also was fond 
of having me read to him, or him to me, even- 
ings, discussing the things we read, — mostly 
poems. Mr. Posey spent most of the fore- 
noons in his study, but often in the afternoons 
he would ask me to accompany him in his 
walks and drives. I think he admired me for 
my practical ways. I saved him much bother 
and vexation over details in looking after the 
school." 

Posey remained in charge of the Orphan 
Asylum until October, 1897, when he resigned. 
In the following December he was appointed 
Superintendent of Public Instruction of the 
Creek (or Muskogee) Nation, but he wished 
to put in cultivation his farm, which consists 
of several hundred acres, and so he soon re- 
signed that office. From Okmulgee he moved 
to his farm, near Stidham, Oklahoma, and 
near that of his father, on which he had been 
born and reared. 



2 3 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

VI. 

From the time of his marriage, in May, 
1896, to October, 1897, Posey wrote many of 
his best poems. When he moved to his farm 
he continued his literary work. There he 
passed the golden era of his life. Mrs. Posey 
assumed the management of the farm — no 
small matter, as there were a number of 
tenants to reckon with. She never allowed 
him to be disturbed in his work, in which he 
was rather slow and very cautious. He had 
a small select library — all favorite books — 
which he read much, as reference to his 
Journal shows. He did his best literary work 
here. He would stroll about the farm in the 
afternoons to observe the squirrels and birds. 
He had a number of pet squirrels which in- 
terested him much. He was fond of dogs, 
and had a number of them. He even made a 
pet of a large turkey-gobbler, which soon be- 
came a terror to strangers and to the other 

24 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

pets. He had fine flowers growing about the 
premises, and these he loved to water and 
tend. He spent some time almost every day 
talking to droll characters who lived in the 
neighborhood, and to old men and women of 
his tribe. 

Posey had great reverence and love for his 
mother, and visited her frequently. He never 
failed to spend the Christmas season with her. 
Her other children were not so thoughtful of 
her comfort, and after the death of her hus- 
band she was often lonely. She almost wor- 
shipped her gifted son, and his home-coming 
was her joy. In their conversations with 
others he would interpret what was being said 
if he thought she did not fully comprehend all 
that was spoken in English. 

But Posey could not be permitted to remain 
in pastoral peace on the Canadian. He had 

25 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

fine executive ability, and was the most 
learned man of all the Creeks. The National 
High School at Eufaula was in need of com- 
petent management, and his government 
urged him to accept the superintendency of 
it, which he finally did, though with much 
reluctance. At Eufaula he was importuned 
constantly for contributions of poems and 
sketches for the Indian Journal, published 
there. He always complied with these re- 
quests when he found it possible to do so, and 
here he began to be interested in newspaper 
work. 

When Posey had put the administration of 
affairs at the Eufaula High School on a satis- 
factory basis he was urged to do the same for 
the Wetumpka National School, which he 
finally consented to do. But he was never a 
lover of official position, and he did not re- 
main long at Wetumpka. He returned to 

26 * 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Eufaula and took editorial charge of the 
Indian Journal. 

VII. 

It was as editor of the Indian Journal that 
Posey began the production of those articles 
which permanently fixed his fame in litera- 
ture. The Dawes Commission was then clos- 
ing up the affairs of the Five Civilized Tribes. 
An era of graft and plunder began, the like 
of which has not been seen in America. The 
Indians became the prey of unprincipled law- 
yers and scoundrels of the lowest order. These 
plied their nefarious business openly and with 
brazen assurance. Much plundering was done 
with the knowledge and sanction of Federal 
officials, high and low. Millions were stolen 
through the medium of townsites. The In- 
dians were conscious of the debauch of which 
they were the victims, but they were utterly 
helpless. Posey sought indirectly to call at- 



27 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

tention to what his people were suffering. 
Whether he accomplished his design is doubt- 
ful. But in his humorously satirical letters 
he developed an entirely new field in litera- 
ture. To that time it had been supposed that 
the Indian was incapable of humorous con- 
ceptions. It was believed that he was too 
grim and stoical to perceive any facetious al- 
lusions to himself or others. These letters 
were continued irregularly for .some years, and 
in an English-Indian dialect dealt with those 
events which were rapidly displacing the 
Indian in his native land. They purported 
to be conversations between Wolf Warrior, 
Hot Gun, Kono Harjo, and Tookpofko Micco, 
— old Creeks. Some of the prominent men 
in the affairs of Oklahoma in that day were 
spoken of by these names: Tarns Bixby was 
" Tarns Big Pie." Pliny Soper was "Plenty- 
so-far." Secretary Hitchcock was "Secre- 
tary Its-cocked." Governor Haskell was 

28 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

"Governor C. N. Has-it." Senator Owen was 
"Col. Robert L. Owes-em." These letters 
were copied by the press of the entire country, 
and enjoyed by appreciative readers from 
Maine to California. Reference is here made 
.to "The Fus Fixico Letters" only as an in- 
cident in the literary fame of Posey. It is 
the design of the present editor to prepare 
them for the press and have them issued in a 
separate volume at some time in the future 
if times are propitious. 

VIII. 

Posey edited the Indian Journal a little 
more than two years. His growing fame 
tended to draw him to Muskogee, the metrop- 
olis of the Indian country. Many offers came 
to him from people and institutions of that 
town, and finally he and Ira L. Reeves took 
charge of the Muskogee Times. However, that 
venture did not prove to be satisfactory to 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

him. There was much work to be done by 
the United Indian Agency which only a man 
familiar with every phase of Indian life and 
character could do, and Posey was induced 
to take a place in the Agency. But at this 
time knowledge of his influence and ability 
came to the Dawes Commission, which was 
in need of some one with exactly his quali- 
fications. In each of the tribes were many 
Indians who refused to accept their allotments 
of land and surrender their tribal authority. 
These, in the Creek tribe, were followers 
of Chief Crazy Snake. Posey saw the in- 
evitable. He realized that the Indians were 
helpless. If any Indian failed to take his 
allotment the tribal land would be disposed 
of without much consideration for his interest. 
If he could be prevailed on to accept his land 
he could be allotted that on which he lived and 
had improved ; otherwise his farm would go to 
any who might choose to have it allotted to 

30 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

himself. There were many "lost Indians" — 
those who had married into other tribes, or 
who had wandered away to live in secluded 
and solitary places, as is the manner of 
Indians. These were to be found and en- 
rolled. And there were the Creek babies born 
after the original rolls had been closed; they 
were to be sought out and enrolled. Posey 
was prevailed on to undertake this work. The 
principal consideration with him was that he 
could do much good for his people in the work 
so necessary to be done. He was furnished 
a stenographer and told to go about his duties 
in his own way. I find in his Journal this 
reference to his taking the field in this pur- 
suit: 

"Drennon C. Skaggs and myself constitute 
what is officially known as the 'Creek Enroll- 
ment Field Party of the Commission to the 
Five Civilized Tribes.' I am Clerk in Charge 
and Creek Interpreter, with Skaggs acting as 
Notary Public and stenographer. Our busi- 

3 1 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

ness is to secure additional evidence in appli- 
cations for enrollment, search for ' lost Creeks,' 
and conciliate the 'Snakes.' We were de- 
tailed for this work in October of last year; 
and though we have labored steadily and 
strenuously ever since, the end is not yet. 
There is more evidence to be secured, more 
'lost Creeks' to be found, and more 'Snakes' 
to be conciliated. This work cannot be ac- 
complished in the office of the Commission 
at Muskogee — 'lost Creeks' do not turn up 
there to be identified — the ' Snakes' will not 
be coaxed in to establish better relations with 
the Government — important witnesses in citi- 
zenship cases pending before the Commission 
cannot go to Muskogee at their own expense 
for the purpose of testifying — the work must 
be done on the roadside, at the hearthside, and 
in the cotton-patch. Hence the 'Creek En- 
rollment Field Party.' 

"The so-called 'lost Creeks' are persons 
whose names appear on the tribal rolls, but 
none of whom the Commission has been able 
to identify. These people, of course, cannot 
be allowed to participate in the distribution 
of tribal property until their identify has been 
established and their rights as citizens de- 
termined according to law. 

32 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

"The 'Snakes,' so called because of their 
leader, Crazy Snake, are a faction of the 
Creeks who are opposed to the allotment of 
lands in severalty and the relinquishment 
of tribal authority. They number several 
hundred, and were arbitrarily allotted lands 
by the Commission. They have persistently 
ignored the work of the Commission and re- 
fused to be governed by its decrees. They 
wish to live in undisturbed enjoyment of their 
old customs and usages and rights guaranteed 
to them by former treaties with the Govern- 
ment." 

To show the painstaking care with which 
he performed his duties I give here one depo- 
sition taken by Posey: 



C. I. 3177. 

EN. 986. 
EN. 764. 

DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR. 

COMMISSIONER TO THE FIVE CIVILIZED TRIBES, 

NEAR BUNCH, I. T., JANUARY 10, I907. 

In the matter of the application for the enroll- 
ment of Honechike, Cosarpe, Itshas Harjo, 
Marley, Liley, Meivike, Polly, Mary, Tissie, 



33 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Warsarsie, Hoekapo, Sallie, Lydia and Alex- 
ander, as citizens by blood of the Creek Nation. 

Itshas Harjo, being first duly sworn by 
and examined through Alex Posey, Notary 
Public and official interpreter, testified as fol- 
lows: 

By the Commissioner. 

Q. What is your name? A. Itshas Harjo. 

Q. Are you known by any other name? A. 
I am commonly known among my Cherokee 
brethren as Old Creek Beaver, but my real 
name is Itshas Harjo. 

Q. How old are you? A. I have passed 
through many days and traveled a long way, 
the shadows have fallen all about me and I 
can see but dimly, but my mind is clear and 
my memory has not failed me. I cannot 
count the years I have lived. All that I know 
about my age is that I was old enough to draw 
the bow and kill squirrels at the time of the 
second emigration of the Creeks and Chero- 
kees from the old country under the leader- 
ship of Chief Cooweescoowee. I was born 
near Eufaula, Alabama, and left there when 
about fifteen years of age. I was about six- 
teen years old when I arrived in this country, 



34 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

for the peaches were green when we left Ala- 
bama and the wild onions were plentiful here 
when we arrived. 

Q. What is your postoffice address? A. 
Bunch ; but the mail I have received through 
that office has not been of a kind to please me, 
the same being official communications from 
the United States Government relative to the 
allotment of land. 

Q. Are you a citizen of the Creek Nation? 
A. I am a full-blood Creek Indian, but I 
have never lived in the Creek Nation. 

Q. Were you ever enrolled as a citizen of 
the Creek Nation? A. Yes, sir; once upon 
a time before the war I drew money at a per 
capita payment made at Old Norfolk Town, 
in the Creek Nation, but I have never par- 
ticipated in any Creek payment since. 

Q. Did you not draw money as a member 
of Ketchapataka Town when the last Creek 
per capita payment was made, in 1895? A. 
No, sir ; as I have told you, I drew money only 
once in the Creek Nation, and that was before 
the war. 

Q. On the 1895 Tribal roll of the Creek 
Nation of Ketchapataka Town are found the 
names of Honechike, Cosarpe, Itshas Harjo, 
Marley, Liley, and Mewike, and there is an 

35 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

application pending before the Commissioner 
to the Five Civilized Tribes for the enroll- 
ment as citizens of the Creek Nation of the 
persons whose names appear in this list. Does 
the Itshas Harjo in this list refer to you? A. 
Evidently — because Marley, Liley and Me- 
wike are my relatives ; but we do not belong 
to Ketchapataka Town, and if our names ap- 
pear upon the roll of that town they were 
erroneously put there. The town to which 
we belong is Arbeka Deep Fork. 

Q. Who are Honechike and Cosarpe, ap- 
pearing in this list with you? A. Honechike 
was an old Creek woman who used to live 
among the Cherokees; she returned to the 
Creek Nation many years ago and died there. 
I cannot account for Cosarpe ; I never heard 
the name before. 

Q. What relation is Marley, Liley and Me- 
wike to you? A. Mewike was a brother of 
mine, who died in March of last year. Marley 
and Liley are my nieces, being the daughters 
of my brother Mewike. Marley died about 
two years ago, and only Liley is now living. 
My brother was variously known as Mewike, 
Ewike, and John Killer. Marley was some- 
times called Meheley, and Liley is also known 
as Tahkee. 

36 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Q. Do you know if they have been enrolled 
and allotted land as Cherokees? A. I think 
they are enrolled as Cherokees, but I am not 
sure. 

Q. Where was your brother living at the 
time of his death? A. In Saline District. 

Q. Had he always lived in the Cherokee 
Nation? A. Yes, sir. 

Q. Was never a resident of the Creek 
Nation? A. No, sir. 

Q. Have you resided continuously in the 
Cherokee Nation ever since your removal from 
Alabama? A. Yes, sir; I have lived in the 
hollows of these hills ever since I established 
a home for myself, and you are the first Creek- 
speaking stranger that has visited me on my 
own premises. If I had met you out in the 
woods I would have spoken Cherokee to you 
and you would not have known that I was a 
Creek Indian. 

Q. Are you enrolled as a citizen of the 
Cherokee Nation? A. If I am I do not know 
it. I have not been curious enough to in- 
quire into that matter. 

Q. Then you do not know whether an allot- 
ment of land has been set aside to you as a 
Cherokee or not? A. No, sir; I have never 
filed upon any land. I am opposed to the 

37 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

allotment of land among the Indians. If my 
name appears upon either the Creek or Chero- 
kee roll, and for that reason I am to be hedged 
about with corner-stones, I want it stricken 
from the roll. 

Q. On the 1895 Tribal roll of the Creek 
Nation, Weogufke Town, are found the fol- 
lowing names: Polly, Mary, Tissie, Warsarsie, 
Hoekapo, Sallie, and Lydia. Do you know 
any such persons? A. Yes, sir; Polly was a 
Creek woman, who died about twenty-five 
years ago. Tissie is a son of Hully and Polly, 
who died many years ago; his parents were 
both Creeks. Tissie is living, and is known 
both as Chissie and John Simmons. Warsar- 
sie is a first cousin of Tissie ; he is living, and 
is also known as Charles Rogers. Hoekapo 
is a brother of Tissie ; he is also living, and is 
sometimes known as George Simmons. Sallie 
is a sister of Tissie and Hoekapo; she is liv- 
ing, and is now the wife of my grandson, Clem 
Beaver. Lydia was a sister of Sallie; she 
died in 1903. 

Q. Do you know if any of these people 
were enrolled as Cherokee Nation? A. I have 
heard that they were enrolled as Cherokees, 
but I do not know it to be true of my own 
knowledge. 

38 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Q Do you know Alexander, whose name 
appears upon the Creek Tribal roll as a mem- 
ber of Okfuske Deep Fork Town? A. Yes, 
sir. He is now dead. He was known as 
Alex Sunday here, and had been given land 
as a Cherokee when he died. 

Q. When did he die? A. January i, 1903, 
and is buried in a graveyard near here. 

Q. Who were his parents? A. Wechus 
Harjo, of Okfuske Deep Fork, was his father, 
and Lizzie Harjo, of Topofka Town, was his 
mother. 

J. B. Myers, being first duly sworn, states, 
that as stenographer to the Commissioner to 
the Five Civilized Tribes he recorded the testi- 
mony in the foregoing proceedings, and that 
the above is a true and correct transcript of 
his stenographic notes thereof. 

[Seal.] (Signed) J. B. Myers. ^ 

Subscribed and sworn to before me, this 
17th day of January, 1907. 

(Signed) Alex Posey. 

IX. 

When the people of the Indian Territory 
realized that single statehood was inevitable, 

39 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

they saw that it was necessary for them to 
take some action which would enable their 
section of the coming commonwealth to act 
in concert and thereby secure for it an equal 
influence in public affairs. It was decided 
that this could be best accomplished by an 
effort to secure statehood for the Indian Terri- 
tory. A constitutional convention was there- 
fore called to meet at Muskogee, August 21, 
1905. Of this body Posey was made the Sec- 
retary. An excellent constitution was formu- 
lated, and its simple, terse, clear English was 
principally the work of Posey. He proposed 
Sequoyah as the name of the Indian State, 
and it was adopted, — a fitting tribute to the 
famous Cherokee and one of the greatest men 
that ever lived. Single statehood came, as the 
Indians had foreseen, and the unification of 
thought and purpose of the people of the Indian 
Territory accomplished all for which the con- 
vention had been called. The control of the 

40 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

new State was completely wrested from old 
Oklahoma. The result was a great tribute 
to the statesmanship of Posey and General 
Pleasant Porter, Chief of the Creeks, for they 
mainly originated the movement for the State 
of Sequoyah, and did much to make it the 
success it afterward proved. 

X. 

When the work of the Dawes Commission 
was completed in the particular field in which 
Posey was employed, he thought to return 
to Eufaula and buy the Indian Journal. 
Statehood had come, and the tribes had been 
broken on the wheel and ground to powder. 
Posey's home was near Eufaula. There, too, 
was the old homestead where he was born and 
where his ancestors were buried. To no other 
people does sentiment so appeal as to the 
Indians, and it was one of the considerations 
which inclined Posey to return to the Cana- 

41 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

dian. Then, a new era had come for the 
Indian. It was required of him that he 
abandon communal life and try to live as an 
individual unit of society. Posey felt the 
change, though he was confident of his ability 
to acquit himself well in the new order of 
things. His knowledge of the country and 
his people would enable him to deal honorably 
and successfully in lands and timber, in oil, 
natural gas, and coal. In furtherance of these 
designs he made his connections for future 
business at Muskogee, and set out for Eufaula. 
Alas! it was a fatal journey! I shall permit 
one who was his companion and who came 
near death in the same catastrophe to tell of 
it: 

STORY OF POSEY'S DEATH AS TOLD BY ATTORNEY 
R. D. HOWE. 

R. D. Howe, the attorney who accom- 
panied Alex Posey when drowned, made the 
following statement to the Times-Democrat. 



42 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

"So much as been said and written, and so 
many have come to Mrs. Alex Posey with 
different stories in regard to the death of her 
husband, that I take it upon myself, being 
with him and an eye-witness to his death, to 
write the true story of this sad occurrence. 

"On the morning of the 27th day of May, 
1908, Alex Posey and myself started for the 
town of Eufaula on the morning passenger, 
to close up some business we had with each 
other in the county court. When the train 
had passed the town of Wells, or Cathey, it 
stopped, and in a few minutes began to back 
back to the siding at the town of Wells; here 
Alex and myself got off, and walking down to 
the front of the engine, met the conductor and 
some other railroad men who had just come 
from down the track in the direction of the 
river. We both stepped up and asked the con- 
ductor if he was going on to Eufaula. His reply 
was 'no,' as there was a small washout in the 
track down this side of the river, and though 
it was not enough to keep a man from crossing 
yet it would be dangerous for the engine to 
cross the place. Just at that time another 
railroad man stepped up and told us that the 
dirt was washed out from under five or six 
ties, but that any man could walk across them, 

43 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

and added that it was only about three miles 
to the town of Eufaula. Alex then turned to 
me and said in a joking way: 'Bob, if you will 
help me carry my grip, we will walk to the 
town.' My reply was, 'Come ahead,' and we 
then started down the track, but just before 
starting the train pulled out and left us stand- 
ing on the road-crossing. When we got down 
the track about a half-mile we could see the 
water up on the track, and on Alex saying that 
he was afraid to go down too close, as the water 
might take the track out, I replied that I would 
go down and see the men who were with us 
wade through, and if it was not deep we could 
wade it as they did. In a few minutes these 
men came back and said that they had gotten 
to a place that they could not wade, but if 
they had a boat they could easily row around 
the place. I asked them how wide it was, and 
they said about 10 or 15 feet. Alex then 
turned to a negro sitting there and asked him 
if he knew where we could get a boat. His 
reply was that he had one, and he would go 
and get it and row us around this bad place in 
the road. 

"This was about 8 o'clock in the morning. 
While the negro was getting the boat, Alex 
and myself went up to a farm-house to get our 

44 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

breakfast, and while sitting there I told him 
I had had my breakfast early in the morning 
at home. He then said to me: 'As you have 
had your breakfast, you go and see if that ne- 
gro has gotten back with the boat, and don't 
let the other men get it.' I then got up, and 
going back down to the track, found the negro 
standing there trying to get another negro to 
go with him to help get the boat out of the 
river. They were gone about three hours or 
more, when I said to Alex that I believed I 
would go over where they were and take a look 
at the boat, which I did, and found it to be a 
very neat little skiff about 16 feet long. When 
the negroes came back with the boat, and 
while coming through the water towards us, 
I walked up to Alex and told him to let two of 
the other men go, as they said they were good 
swimmers and good boatmen. His reply was: 
'No, Bob, it is safe enough, as Thornton and 
myself have rowed down the river many a 
time. Let's you and I go on, as it will take 
at least two hours to cross that place, and if 
we wait for anyone else we will be in the night, 
but if we go across now we can attend to all 
of our business this evening, as Thornton and 
I are going up the river to McBurney to- 
morrow and row down it,' and immediately 

45 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

after making this statement he stepped into 
the boat and walked across to the front and 
sat down, and turning to me asked, 'Are you 
going?' My reply was, 'If you are going, I 
am going too,' and I immediately took my 
place in the center of the boat. 

' ' We were at this time on the west side of the 
track, and turning our boat in a southwesterly 
course we started for an old house that stood 
about 300 yards directly west of this dangerous 
place in the track. When we got within about 
a hundred yards of the house and about two 
hundred yards from this opening in the track, 
the negro who was sitting in the back of the 
boat paddling, dropped his paddle. At this 
time we were in pretty swift water, and when 
the paddle was lost it caused the negro who 
was rowing to get a little excited, and he, in 
this swift water, commenced digging at his 
oars for dear life. When he did this I stood 
up in the boat behind him, and placing my 
hands on his shoulder and slightly tapping it, 
I said: 'Keep cool; don't get excited; make 
every lick count, and though we may not get 
to the house, yet we will get far enough 
through this current to allow us to land on the 
railroad just the other side of this dangerous 
point.' 

46 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

"At that time he seemed to quiet down, but 
in a few seconds when the front of the boat 
turned down-stream a little he commenced 
again, and after making two or three licks 
in this way dropped his oar on the east side. 

"When this was done our boat immediately 
got sidewise in the current and was going very 
rapidly for the opening in the railroad. I then 
reached down and got the oar that the negro 
had laid down, and attempted to paddle out 
of the heaviest of the current, but in a moment 
saw that that was impossible, so I took the 
oar and tried to pole out, but could not touch 
the bottom of the stream. I then laid the 
paddle down and told the men in the boat to 
grab for the railroad right-of-way fence, and 
not under any circumstances let the boat go 
beyond that fence. 

"When we got to the fence we all made a 
grab for it, but when the boat struck it, it 
immediately commenced to sink. 

"At this time Alex was sitting in the front 
end, apparently paying no attention to what 
was going on, and the only evidence I have of 
him hearing what was said was when we got 
to the fence, he, like the rest of us, tried to 
grab it. 

"At the time the boat sank I got up, and 

47 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

taking off my coat and hat, told them all to 
jump over the fence on the east side, and we 
all jumped over together about two feet below 
the fence. We struck in water up under our 
arms, and very swift, but from some cause 
we could keep our feet by drifting with the 
current. 

11 While bobbing around this way Alex came 
over right close to me, looking for something 
to get hold of, and took hold of my hand. I 
then told him that we must not take hold of 
each other, but that we must get up to the 
top of the water and swim right through the 
center of the current. 

"The negro was at this time going stand- 
ing upright on through the current, and when 
he came to the railroad he went under it. I 
think at this time he was dead. 

"I got up on top of the water and swam 
directly through the current over the top of 
the railroad and over the top of two wire 
fences, in an easterly direction, passing the 
r ght-of-way wire fence on the east side of the 
track. Then I heard someone hollering, and 
glancing back, I saw the negro who was fol- 
lowing me sitting on the top of the post. I 
swam on straight east in the current about 50 
yards farther, when I saw, off to the right of 

48 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

me, floating on his back with his feet down the 
stream, the dead negro. I turned southeast 
towards him. At that time I thought he was 
an old settler in that country, and knew what 
he was doing and was aiming to float out, 
and I thought if he could float out, I could too, 
but as a fact at that time I had given up all 
hopes of ever getting out, and realized that 
it was only a matter of time when I would 
drown, as I was exhausted from coming 
through this raging current at the rate of 
about 75 miles per hour. But when I got out 
to where this negro was, I saw that he was 
dead, as his mouth was open and the water 
was streaming into it; then it was I deeply 
realized that there was not much chance for 
me to get out, but at the same time I kept 
swimming, and passed the negro about two 
feet and turned south and swam about three 
feet farther, when my left foot struck the 
ground, and while struggling to get a foothold 
the dead negro passed me, going on down the 
stream. 

"I stood up in the water, and looking back 
saw Alex, as I thought, sitting on the railroad. 
I then waded on about twenty yards and 
stopped to rest, when on looking back again, 
I saw the negro who was following me get off 

49 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

the post and swim directly to where he had 
seen me let down and touch bottom. 

"I then turned, and going on south, waded 
to a small peach tree, and looking back again 
saw that the negro who was following me had 
stopped and was washing his face. 

"I called to him to come on, and while 
calling, his father passed me on horseback and 
went out to him and picked him up and 
brought him out to a tent on the high ground 
that I had just passed on my way back to the 
railroad. 

"I got on the railroad completely broken 
down both physically and nervously, and 
started up the road north to where I thought 
Alex was sitting, and looking up, called to him 
to come on and we would go on to Eufaula, 
but when I looked up I saw that he was stand- 
ing out in the current about thirty feet from 
the track to the northwest and about twenty 
feet from where this terrible current went over 
and under the railroad, holding to a little 
sprout not larger than the handle of an um- 
brella, with three small prongs to it. 

" I then turned and went back, and, re-wad- 
ing the water next to the railroad, crossed over 
to where this negro on horseback had de- 
posited on the ground, as he thought in a dy- 

50 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

ing condition, his son. I asked him to ride to 
Euf aula and tell all the people that Alex Posey 
was out here and about to be drowned and to 
come out and bring about three or four hun- 
dred feet of rope. He said he could not get 
there on horseback. I then told him to come 
over to the railroad and go on foot. He told 
me that the man who he had just taken out 
was his son, and that he was nervously pros- 
trated by the shock, and that he could not 
possibly walk there. 

"I then waded back to the railroad and 
started again to the place where Alex was. 
When about halfway I met a little negro and 
asked him to go. He said he had a sore foot 
and could not possibly walk to the town. I 
then left him and ran up in about ^ve steps 
from where the track went into the water. 
There I came across two negroes sitting down 
looking at Alex in the water. I asked the 
first one to go to Euf aula and get men and rope 
out here to get him out. He said he had the 
rheumatism and could not go. The second 
one said he was afraid to cross the river bridge. 
I then walked by these negroes, and stepping 
out as close to the water as I could, called to 
Alex and asked him if he could hold on to that 



51 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

small twig until I could go to Eufaula and get 
men and rope to get him out. 

"He looked around over his shoulder and 
smiling at me, said yes, and with his left hand 
motioned to me to hurry to town. 

' ' I then started back up the track on a run 
part of the time and part of the time walking 
as rapidly as possible, and after going about 
half a mile I came to the river. Running 
across the bridge, I went up to the water tank 
and there met John Simpson, Mike Sausman, 
Jim Wadsworth and another man who I did 
not know, and told them what I wanted. 

"Some men had just taken a boat across 
to an island to get a man out, and we called 
them back. With that boat was Mr. W. C. 
Coppick. We then went down to where Alex 
was in the water, and Mr. Simpson stepped 
up and was talking to him to encourage him 
to hold on a while longer, as we would get him 
out, while he was himself getting ready to go 
out in the boat. 

"Then it was that Mr. Simpson said to me: 
'Mr. Howe, you are right; we need plenty of 
rope; go and tell Jim Wadsworth to go to 
town after it.' 

"I ran back through the crowd that had 
gathered, which consisted of about a dozen 

52 






ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

men, and saw that Mr. Wadsworth had heard 
what Mr. Simpson said, and was, with Mike 
Sausman, running up the track in the di- 
rection of Eufaula for the rope. 

"In the meantime Mr. Coppick and Mr. 
Simpson had taken the boat out to the fence, 
but found out they could do nothing until the 
men came with the rope. After the men had 
been gone about 30 minutes the train crew 
came up with about forty Italians. I went 
to the conductor and asked him if he would 
run to Eufaula and bring the rope out. He 
said ' yes,' and, uncoupling the engine from the 
cars, went back at a rapid rate. In about 
twenty minutes he came back with about 400 
feet of rope. 

"Mr. Coppick, Mr. Simpson and a little 
boy by the name of Pearl Gibson took the 
rope, and, going out to the fence, tied it to 
the boat. They could not get to a post directly 
west of him, but tied it to one so that when the 
boat was let down it came about five feet to 
the south and about five feet to the west, 
leaving Alex standing about five feet to the 
northeast. 

44 Mr. Coppick went down in the boat, while 
Mr. Simpson stayed up at the post to hold the 
boat and the Gibson boy stood at his post to 

53 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

help hold the boat and pull it in. When he 
got down there, Mr. Coppick got out and at- 
tempted to push the boat over to him, then 
Simpson and Gibson would let it down to 
him; but the water was so swift that it was 
impossible to push the boat as much as six 
inches, so Mr. Coppick got over on the other 
side and attempted to pull the boat over, but 
came very near losing his hold on it, and had 
to get back in. 

"Mr. Simpson and I then told the men to 
go out and help with the boat, but at that 
time there was no one there who could swim 
but Jim Simpson, and he immediately com- 
menced taking off his clothes to go in, and at 
the same time Jay Smith was getting ready 
to go in with him. 

' ' In the meantime Alex had requested Mr. 
Coppick to hand him one end of the rope and 
he could pull him in. Before doing this Mr. 
Coppick asked him if he was scared, and he 
said no. He then asked him if he was excited 
and he again said no. Then Mr. Coppick 
handed him one end of the rope, at the same 
time telling him not to turn loose that twig 
unless he was sure he could hold the rope. He 
said he could. Mr. Simpson then called to him 
not to turn loose of the twig unless he could 

54 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

hold the rope, and added: Tor God's sake, 
Alex, don't do it.' He at that time had hold 
of the rope with his left hand, but was holding 
the twig with his right. He then told Mr. 
Simpson that he could hold the rope, and then 
at the same time he took hold of it with his 
right hand. 

"When he did the swift current threw him 
out in the stream directly behind the boat 
about four feet, but he still stood on his feet. 

"Mr. Coppick asked him if he could pull 
in. He said yes, and attempted to pull him- 
self into the boat, but as he made the pull his 
feet flew out from under him and left him 
dragging behind the boat. He then raised his 
head and told Mr. Coppick that he could not 
pull himself into the boat. 

1 ' Jim Simpson then started out to the fence 
to get to the rope and go down to him, but be- 
fore he could get to the fence Alex had re- 
quested Mr. Coppick to pull him in. Mr. 
Coppick told him to hold the rope and he 
would pull him in or pull out the back end of 
the boat. When he made the pull, Alex's 
hands began to slip from off the rope. He then 
turned his head and looked toward the bank 
where we were standing, and turning and look- 
ing back down the stream towards this awful 

55 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

current that was going over and under the 
railroad track, he opened his hands and passed 
out of sight for the moment under the rail- 
road. 

"I saw him for a moment on the east side, 
apparently dead, as I thought ; then his body 
shot down the stream for the right-of-way wire 
fence, and there it sank from my sight and I 
saw him no more. 

" A word here in regard to this water. The 
river at this place formed a horseshoe ; on the 
west side of the track there was about three 
miles square of water, and about the same on 
the east. The water had broken through the 
track, leaving a space of about thirty feet, and 
going through this on a four-foot fall in a dis- 
tance of about one hundred yards, the track 
was bent down, leaving the water to run about 
twelve inches over the top of it and about 
eight feet under it, with some of the ties hang- 
ing down, and the bend in the railroad making 
the water that ran over it run in a channel 
about three feet wide, and was so swift that 
when you threw in a sack of sand it would go 
down the current about ten feet or more. 
To strike any portion of that railroad was 
instant death, so you can readily see that it 
was an impossibility for anyone to go in to 

56 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

where he was to attempt to let him come out 
on a rope, or to lasso him and drag him out, 
but the only way to possibly save him was to 
put three good men with a boat and at least 
fifteen men up at the fence to pull the boat in. 
"This is the true story of the awful death 
of the greatest Creek Indian of this country, 
the most polished newspaper man in the State, 
and a writer of prose and poetry whose equal 
in his line we have never known." 

XI. 

The poems of Posey always appeared over 
the nom de plume Chinnubbie Harjo. Chin- 
nubbie Harjo, in the Muskogee mythology, 
had changed character and was regarded as 
the evil genius of the Creeks. In his original 
conception he had been their hero, a mighty 
man endowed with a supernatural powers, but 
burdened with many of the foibles, limita- 
tions, and weaknesses of humanity. He was 
to the ancient Creeks what Hiawatha was to 
the Iroquois — what Manabozho was to the 



57 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Algonquins. Posey seems to have accepted 
him in his modified capacity, for I find four 
articles or stories written by him of Chin- 
nubbie. These were doubtless written while 
Posey was at Bacone University and pub- 
lished in the Instructor. I find them in pam- 
phlet form, and they bear the following titles: 
" Chinnubbie Harjo, The Evil Genius 

of the Creeks," — 
11 Chinnubbie Scalps the Squaws," — 
" Chinnubbie's Courtship," — 
" Chinnubbie and the Owl." 
The portrayal of Chinnubbie Harjo by 
Posey seems to assign him to the place which 
in the ancient lore of the Creeks I have in- 
dicated. Pagan religions usually concerned 
themselves much more with the conciliation 
of evil spirits than in the discovery and adora- 
tion of beneficent ones. 

The nom de plume was a good one, eupho- 
nious and flowing, pleasant to the ear, and 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

genuinely Indian. After his graduation Posey 
published no poem, that I have found, over 
any other name; but it seems not to have 
been his purpose to conceal his identity, for 
it was generally known that these poems were 
written by him. 

XII. 

Posey was a striking character — swarthy, 
as Indians are, erect, and of fine presence. 
Toward strangers he maintained an impene- 
trable reserve, and reticence was habitual with 
him. But to friends — those who had won a 
place in his heart — his greetings were warm 
and his manner cordial and gracious. By 
nature he was gentle, kind, considerate. He 
was modest in reference to his talents, and he 
was fully aware of his deficiencies. He did 
not take every friend to his soul, but some he 
did. They were usually those who loved 
literature as he loved it. These were his joy, 



59 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

his constant delight. Their coming kindled 
happiness, and they were not long with him 
until he was reading with them and discussing 
some favorite author. He rarely referred to 
his own productions, and when he did so it 
was in disparaging terms. 

Posey was the best known man in the Five 
Civilized Tribes, and was universally spoken 
of "Alex" Posey. This name he preferred. 
Indeed, he used no other, even when signing 
legal documents. He disliked the name "Law- 
rence," and while it was his name, he never 
used it. To the Constitution of the State of 
Sequoyah is signed the favorite form of his 
name, Alex Posey. 

In his home life Posey found true happi- 
ness. As a husband he was devoted and af- 
fectionate. As a father he was loving and in- 
dulgent. By temperament he was never exact- 
ing, but always appreciative. He possessed 
the generous nature of the Indian and was a 

60 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

free spender of money for the comfort of those 
near and dear to him. While not improvi- 
dent, he did not comprehend the full value of 
money. He was very considerate of his 
family, and if he had five minutes to spare he 
would take down some favorite volume and 
read to his wife. His children, a son and a 
daughter, were his companions. When he 
was absent from home his family received 
from him an affectionate letter every day. 

XIII. 
Indians are poetical in their conceptions of 
life and nature. As observers of the habits 
of animals and the phenomena of nature they 
surpass all other people. They are orators 
by instinct, and no more eloquent people ever 
lived. Speaking of this characteristic of his 
people, Posey said: 

"All of my people are poets, natural-born 
poets, gifted with wonderful imaginative 

61 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

power and the ability to express in sonorous, 
musical phrases their impressions of life and 
nature. If they could be translated into Eng- 
lish without losing their characteristic beauty 
and flavor, many of the Indian songs and 
poems would rank among the greatest pro- 
ductions of all time. Some of them are master- 
pieces. They have a splendid dignity, gorgeous 
word-pictures, and reproduce with magic effect 
many phases of life in the forests — the glint 
of the fading sunshine falling on the leaves, 
the faint stirring of the wind, the whirring 
of insects — no detail is too small to escape 
their observation, and the most fleeting and 
evanescent impressions are caught and re- 
corded in most exquisite language. The 
Indian talks in poetry ; poetry is his vernacu- 
lar — not necessarily the stilted poetry of 
books, but the free and untrammeled poetry 
of Nature, the poetry of the fields, the sky, 
the river, the sun and the stars. In his own 
tongue it is not difficult for the Indian to com- 
pose, — he does it instinctively; but in at- 
tempting to write in English he is handi- 
capped. Words seem hard, form mechanical, 
and it is to these things that I attribute the 
failure of the civilized Indian to win fame in 
poetry." 

62 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Posey overcame the difficulties of which he 
speaks and of which he was painfully con- 
scious, and which required tremendous effort 
and infinite patience and perseverance, for he 
was a complete Indian. He inherited little 
from the white man. That which he had from 
us was mostly acquired. He belonged to a 
people but two or three generations removed 
from barbarism. But inherent in his soul was 
the aspiration to commune with the infinite. 
The emotions which stirred him he recorded 
for us. He was the Apostle of Nature. As 
long as men are moved by the beautiful in 
nature they will read the words and bless the 
memory of this bard of the Creeks — the poet 
of America's aboriginal people. 

XIV. 

I forego the temptation to enter here upon 
an analysis of Posey's work. Every reader 
may do that for himself. It has been said that 

63 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Posey had no faith in a future life. It is im- 
possible that this could be true. Of all people, 
the Indians are strongest in their faith in a 
Supreme Being and a future life. Posey was 
too broad a man to attempt to set bounds to 
Omnipotence. To him a Creator was so much 
in evidence every time he lifted his eyes to be- 
hold the beauties of the world and the heavens, 
that to his mind no argument was required 
to prove His existence. That his road was full 
of reverence for the Supreme Architect of the 
universe will be plain to all who may read what 
he has said. In his heart he could find no re- 
sponse to the theory that God was best sought 
and only found by adherence to sects and de- 
nominations. Posey's conception was that 
God is best served and most reverently wor- 
shipped by our expression of the gratitude 
we feel for the beauties and blessings He so 
bounteously pours out for us every day. This 
conception inspired in Posey love for a life 

6 4 




MRS. ALEX POSEY AND DAUGHTER 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

which was right and a deep reverence for God 
as He manifests Himself to His children by 
his beneficence and the beauties of His handi- 
work. In this Posey was devout. In it he 
found the hope of resurrection and a new 
life — 

"When Death has shut the blue sky out from me, 

Sweet Daffodil, 
And years roll on without my memory, 
Thou 'It reach thy tender fingers down to mine of clay, 

A true friend still, 
Although I'll never know thee till the Judgment Day." 

William Elsey Connelley. 

816 Lincoln Street, 

Topeka, Kansas, August it, 1910. 



65 



THE POEMS 

OF 

aiexauber latorence 



THE POEMS 



OF 



^ilexanber Hatorence ^o^ep 



SONG OF THE OKTAHUTCHEE.* 



Far, far, far are my silver waters drawn; 

The hills embrace me, loth to let me go; 
The maidens think me fair to look upon, 

And trees lean over, glad to hear me flow. 
Thro 1 field and valley, green because of me, 
I wander, wander to the distant sea. 

Thro 1 lonely places and thro' crowded ways, 
Thro' noise of strife and thro 1 the solitude, 

And on thro 1 cloudy days and sunny days, 
I journey till I meet, in sisterhood, 

The broad Canadian,^ red with the sunset, 

Now calm, now raging in a mighty fret! 

♦Oktahutchee: Okta, sand; Hutchee, river. A name given 
the beautifu' North Canadian by the Creek Indian. 
fThe South Canadian. 

6 9 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

On either hand, in a grand colonnade, 
The cottonwoods rise in the azure sky, 

And purple mountains cast a purple shade 
As I, now grave, now laughing, pass them by; 

The birds of air dip bright wings in my tide, 

In sunny reaches where I noiseless glide. 

O'er sandy reaches with rocks and mussel- 
shells, 

Blue over spacious beds of amber sand, 
By hanging cliffs, by glens where echo dwells — 

Elusive spirit of the shadow-land — 
Forever blest and blessing do I go, 
A-wid'ning in the morning's roseate glow. 

Tho' I sing my song in a minor key, 
Broad lands and fair attest the good I do; 

Tho' I carry no white sails to the sea, 
Towns nestle in the vales I wander thro' ; 

And quails are whistling in the waving grain, 

And herds are scattered o'er the verdant plain. 



70 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



FLOWERS. 



When flowers jade, why does 

Their fragrance linger still ? 
Have they a spirit, too, 

That Death can never kill ? 
Is it their Judgment Day 

When from the dark, dark mould 
Of April and of May 

Their blooms again unfold? 



71 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



WHEN LOVE IS DEAD. 



Who last shall kiss the lips of love, when love is 

dead ? 
Who last shall fold her hands and pillow soft 

her head? 
Who last shall vigil keep beside her lonely bier? 
I ask, and from the dark, cold height without, 

I hear 
The mystic answer: "I, her mother, Earth, 

shall press 
Her lips the last, in my infinite tenderness. 1 ' 



72 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO A DAFFODIL. 



When Death has shut the blue skies out from 
me, 

Sweet Daffodil, 
And years roll on without my memory, 
Thou'lt reach thy tender fingers down to mine 
of clay, 

A true friend still, 
Although Til never know thee till the Judgment 
Day. 



73 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



MY FANCY. 



Why do trees along the river 

Lean so jar out o'er the tide? 
Very wise men tell me why, but 

I am never satisfied; 
And so I keep my fancy still, 

That trees lean out to save 
The drowning from the clutches of 

The cold, remorseless wave. 



74 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO A ROBIN. 



Out in the golden air, 

Out where the skies are fair, 
I hear a song of gladness, 

With never note of sadness. 
Sing out thy heart's delight, 

And mine of every sorrow. 
Sing, sweet bird, till the night, 

And come again tomorrow. 



75 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE DEW AND THE BIRD. 



There is more glory in a drop of dew, 

That shineth only for an hour, 
Than there is in the pomp of earth's great Kings 

Within the noonday of their power. 

There is more sweetness in a single strain 
That falleth from a wild bird's throat, 

At random in the lonely forest's depths, 

Than there's in all the songs that bards e'er 
wrote. 

Yet men, for aye, rememb'ring Ccesar's name, 

Forget the glory in the dew, 
And, praising Homer's epic, let the lark's 

Song fall unheeded from the blue. 



76 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

HUSSE LOTKA ENHOTULLE. 

(The West Wind.) 



From o'er the hills it comes to me, 

The clouds pursuing, 
With song of bird and drone of bee, 

So soft and wooing; 

From o'er the woods, thro' shade and sheen, 

With fragrance teeming, 
From o'er the prairies, wide and green, 

And leaves me dreaming. 

Across the fields of corn and wheat 

In valleys lying, 
It seems to sing a message sweet 

Of peace undying. 

I shout aloud — the wildwoods ring 

As they have never — 
" Blow, O Wind of the West, and sing 

This song forever!" 



77 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



BOB WHITE. 



Bob—Bob White! 
The joyous call falls like a silver chime; 
And back across the fields of summer-time, 
The echo, faint but sweetly clear, 
Falls dying on the listening ear — 

Bob— Bob White! 

A nd when the cheery voice is dead, 
And silence woos the wind to rest 

Among the oak boughs overhead, 

From valley, hill, or meadow's breast, 

There comes an answering call — 
Bob— Bob White! 

And, once more, over all, 

The golden Silence weaves her spell, 

And light and shadow play 
At hide-and-seek behind the high 

Blue ivalls around the day. 



73 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

A speck of brown adown the dusty pathway 

runneth he, 
Then whirreth, like a missile shot, into a neigh- 

Wring tree. 
Again, from where the wood and prairie meet, 
Across the tasseled corn and waving wheat, 
Awakening many tender memories sweet — 
Bob— Bob White! 



79 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



BROOK SONG. 



If you 11 bill pause and 

Listen, listen long, 
There 1 re far-off voices 

In a wee brook's song, 
That come as voices 

Come from out the years; 
And you will dream you 

Hear the voice once Hers, 
Perhaps, and wend on, 

Blinded by your tears. 



80 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



ON PINEY.* 



Far away from the valley below, 

Like the roar in a shell of the sea 

Or the flow of the river at night, 

Comes the voice strangely sweet of the pines. 

Snowy clouds, sometimes white, sometimes dark, 
Like the joys and the sorrows of life, 
Sail above, half becalmed in the blue; 
And their cool shadows lie on the hills. 

Here and there, when the leaves blow apart, 
To admit sunny winds seeking rest 
In the shade with their burden of sweets, 
Piney Creek shimmers bright, with a cloud 

Or a patch of the sky on its breast; 
Here the din and the strife of the mart 
And the gabble of lips that profane 
Are heard not, and the heart is made pure. 

* Piney— A stream in the Tulledega hills. 
81 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



IN TULLEDEGA.* 



Where mountains lift their heads 

To clouds that nestle low; 
Where constant beauty spreads 

Sublimer scenes below; 

Where gray and massive rocks 
O'erhang rough heights sublime; 

Where awful grandeur mocks 
The brush } and poet's rhyme, 

We saw the evening blush 

Above the rugged range, 
We heard the river rush 

Far off and faint and strange. 

* Tulledega— Border line. A name given a range of hills lying 
along the Oktahutchee, west of the poet's home. 



82 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

TO WAHILLA ENHOTULLE. 

(To the South Wind.) 



Wind, hast thou a sigh 
Robbed from her lips divine 

Upon this sunbright day — 
A token or a sign ? 

Oh, take me, Wind, into 
Thy confidence, and tell 

Me, whispering soft and low, 
The secrets of the dell. 

Oh, teach me what it is 
The meadow flowers say 

As to and fro they nod 
Thro' all the golden day. 

Oh, hear, Wind of the South, 
And whispering softer yet, 

Unfold the story of 
The lone pine tree's regret. 



83 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Oh, waft me echoes sweet 

That haunt the meadow glen— 

The scent of new-mown hay, 
A nd songs of harvest men; 

The coolness of the sea 
And forests dark and deep — 

The soft reed notes of Pan, 
And bleat of straying sheep. 

Oh, make me, Wind, to know 
The language of the bee — 

The burden of the wild 
Bird's rapturous melody; 

The password of the leaves 

Upon the cottonwood; 
And let me join them in 

Their mystic brotherhood. 



84 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



ON VIEWING THE SKULL AND 
BONES OF A WOLF. 



How savage, fierce and grim ! 

His bones are bleached and white. 
But what is death to him ? 

He grins as if to bite. 
He mocks the fate 

That bade, "Begone." 
There s fierceness stamped 

In ev'ry bone. 

Let silence settle from the midnight sky — 
Such silence as you've broken with your cry; 
The bleak wind howl, unto the utmost verge 
Of this mighty waste, thy fitting dirge. 



85 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



WHENCE. 



Whence come these sweet ceolian airs 

Which, in the poet's inmost soul, 

Awaken silent melodies? 

I ask a wild rose blooming far 

Afield, and thus it answered me: 

" From places like to this, where love 

Abides to start them with his breath." 

I questioned then a stately tree, 

With leaves a-ripple in the breeze. 

"From lonely woods," it gave reply, 

"Where Sorrow broods uncomforted." 

And then I asked a meadow-lark, 

A -bobbing on the waving grass. 

As quick, as blithe, its answer came: 

"From meadows where I meet the Sun, 

And brown bees rove in quest of sweets." 

The Tulledega, lying like 

A purple shadow in the west, 

Gave answer to my question, thus: 

"From heights where stormy Passion speaks 

In the language of the tempest." 

86 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



SPRING IN TULWA THLOCCO * 



Thro 1 the vine-embowered portal blows 
The fragrant breath of summer-time; 

Far, the river, brightly winding, goes 
With murmurs falling into rhyme. 

It is spring in Tulwa Thlocco now; 

The fresher hue of grass and tree 
All but hides upon the mountain's brow 

The green haunts of the chickadee. 

There are drifts of plum blooms, snowy white, 
Along the lane and greening hedge; 

And the dogwood blossoms cast a light 
Upon the forest's dusky edge. 

Crocus, earliest flower of the year, 
Hangs out its starry petals where 

The spring beauties in their hiding peer, 
And red-buds crimson all the air. 



* Tulwa Thlocco — A large settlement of people. This settle- 
ment lies on the north side of the Oktahutchee. 

87 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

ON THE CAPTURE AND IMPRISON- 
MENT OF CRAZY SNAKE,* 
JANUARY, 1900. 



Down with him I chain him I bind him fast! 

Slam to the iron door and turn the key ! 
The one true Creek, perhaps the last 

To dare declare, " You have wronged me!" 
Defiant, stoical, silent, 

Suffers imprisonment ! 

Such coarse black hair! such eagle eye! 

Such stately mien! — how arrow -straight! 
Such will! such courage to defy 

The powerful makers of his fate! 
A traitor, outlaw, — what you will, 

He is the noble red man still. 

Condemn him and his kind to shame! 
I bow to him, exalt his name! 

* Crazy Snake— Chitto Harjo. The leader of a band of Creeks 
who oppose the abolishment of their tribal rights. Several times 
Harjo has been imprisoned because of his defying the United States 
authorities. 

88 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



SHELTER. 



In my cabin in the clearing, 

I lie and hear the autumn shower jailing 
slow; 
Afar, almost out of hearing, 

I lie and hear the wet wind thro 1 the forest go. 

Sense of shelter steals o'er me; 

Into the evening dimness failing, 
Into the night before me, 

I lie and fancy I am sailing. 

All night the wind will be blowing; 

All night the rain will slowly pour; 
But I shall sleep, never knoiving 

The storm raps ceaseless at my door. 



89 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO THE INDIAN MEADOW LARK. 



When other birds despairing southward fly, 

In early autumn-time away; 
When all the green leaves of the forest die. 

How merry still art thou, and gay. 

01 golden-breasted bird of dawn, 

Through all the bleak days singing on, 

Till winter, wooed a captive by thy strain, 
Breaks into smiles, and spring is come again. 



90 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



NIGHTFALL. 



As evening splendors fade 

From yonder sky afar, 
The Night pins on her dark 

Robe with a large bright star, 
And the new moon hangs like 

A high-thrown scimitar. 
Vague in the mystic room 

This side the paling west, 
The Tulledegas loom 

In an eternal rest, 
And one by one the lamps are lit 

In the dome of the Infinite. 



91 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



ASSURED. 



Be it dark; be it bright; 

Be it pain; be it rest; 
Be it wrong; be it right — 

// must be for the best. 

Some good must somewhere wait, 
And sometime joy and pain 

Must cease to alternate, 
Or else we live in vain. 



92 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TRYSTING IN CLOVER. 



/ laid amid the hum of bumblebees, 

And 0, and 0, 

Above me, to and fro, 
The clover-heads were tossing in the breeze! 

And 0, and 0, from meadow, wood or height, 

Afar or near, 

Came sweet the whistle clear, 
Athwart the sunny silence, Bob — Bob — White! 

The heaven in the south arched low and blue, — 

Too low and blue, 

For clouds to wander thro 1 , 
And so they moored at rest as white ships do. 

And 0, and 0, how cool their shadows lay 

Upon the lea, 

In dark embroidery! 
How sweet the mock-bird sang, O perfect day! 



93 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

My heart gave answer, Bird, for thee and me, 

perfect day! 

For she is on her way, 
I know, to join me in my reverie 1 

Between that time and now, lie many years 

And 0, and 0, 

And 0, time changes so! 
The spring and summer wane and autumn seres. 

Sing, Mockingbird, upon the bending bough, 

Sing as of yore! 

My heart responds no more — 
She's listening to sweeter music now! 



94 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO A MORNING WARBLER. 



Sing on, till light and shadow meet, 
Blithe spirit of the morning air; 
I do not know thy name, nor care — 

/ only know thy song is sweet, 

And that my heart beats thanks to thee. 
Made pure by thy minstrelsy. 



95 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO MY WIFE. 



Tve seen the beauty of the rose, 

I've heard the music of the bird, 

And given voice to my delight; 

Tve sought the shapes that come in dreams, 

Tve reached my hands in eager quest, 

To fold them empty to my breast; 

While you, the whole of all Tve sought — 

The love, the beauty, and the dreams — 

Have stood, thro' weal and woe, true at 

My side, silent at my neglect. 



96 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE IDLE BREEZE. 



Like a truant boy, unmindful 
Of the herd he keeps, thou, idle 
Breeze, hast left the white clouds scattered 
All about the sky, and wandered 
Down to play at leap-frog with the 
Grass, and rest in the branches; 
While, one by one, the white clouds stray 
Apart, and disappear forever. 



97 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



COME. 



Above, 

The stars are bursting into bloom, 

My love; 

Below, unfolds the evening gloom. 

Come, let us roam the long lane thro\ 

My love, just as we used to do. 

The birds 

Of twilight twitter, sweet and low, 

A nd fly to rest, and homeward go 

The herds. 

Come, let the long lane lead us as it will, 

My love, a-winding thro 1 the evening still. 

Behold 

How now the full-blown stars are spread, 

Like large white lilies, overhead! 

But fold 

They must, and fade at gray daylight, 

My love; they blossom but at night. 



98 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

The moon, 

My love, uncurls her silvry hair, 

And June 

Spills all her sweetness on the air. 

Come, let us roam the long lane thro J , 

My love, just as we used to do. 



99 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



MY HERMITAGE. 



Between me and the noise of strife 
Are walls of mountains set with pine; 

The dusty, care- strewn paths of life 
Lead not to this retreat of mine. 

I hear the morning wind awake 

Beyond the purple height, 
And, in the growing light, 

The lap of lilies on the lake. 

I live with Echo and with Song, 
And Beauty leads me forth to see 

Her temple's colonnades, and long 
Together do we love to be. 

The mountains wall me in, complete, 

A nd leave me but a bit of blue 
Above. All year, the days are sweet — 

How sweet! And all the long nights thro' 

I hear the river flowing by 

Along its sandy bars; 
Behold, far in the midnight sky, 

An infinite of stars! 

IOO 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

'Tis sweet, when all is still, 
When darkness gathers round, 

To hear, from hill to hill, 

The far, the wandering sound. 

The cedar and the pine 

Have pitched their tents with me. 
What freedom vast is mine ! 

What room! What mystery! 

Upon the dreamy southern breeze, 
That steals in like a laden bee 

And sighs for rest among the trees, 
Are far-blown bits of melody. 

What afterglows the twilights hold, 

The darkening skies along! 
And 0, what rose-like dawns unfold, 

That smite the hills to song! 

High in the solitude of air, 

The gray hawk circles on and on, 

Till, like a spirit soaring there, 
His image pales and he is gone! 



IOI 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



SEASHELLS. 



/ picked up shells with ruby lips 
That spoke in whispers of the sea, 

Upon a time, and watched the ships, 
On white wings, sail away to sea. 

The ships I saw go out that day 
Live misty — dim in memory; 

But still I hear, from far away, 
The blue waves breaking ceaselessly. 



I02 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



A VISION OF JUNE. 



At last, my white Narcissus is in bloom; 

Each blossom sheds a wondrous fragrance. Lot 
From over bleak December's waste of snow, 

In summer garments, lightly thro 1 the gloom, 

Comes June to claim the truant in my room; 
With her the airs of sunny meadows come, 
And in the apple boughs I hear the hum 

Of bees; in all the valleys, brooks resume, 

9 Twixt greening banks, their mumurous melody; 

The sunlight bursts in splendor in the blue, 
And soon the narrow walls confining me 

Recede into the distance from my view; 

My spirit in the summer's largeness grows, 
And every thorn is hidden by the rose. 



103 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE HOMESTEAD OF EMPIRE. 



Lot plain and sky are brothers; peak 
And cloud confer; the rivers spread 

At length to mighty seas! 
The soul is lifted up 

In room whose walls share God's; wherein 
Empire has staked off a homestead ! 

Roll on, ye prairies of the West, 
Roll on, like unsailed seas away! 

I love thy silence 

And thy mysterious room; 

Roll on, ye deserts unconfined, 
Roll on into the boundless day ! 

Roll on, ye rivers of the West, 

Roll on, through canyons to the sea! 

Ye chant a harmony 

Whereto free people march ! 

Roll on, Oregon, roll on! 

Roll on, O thunderous Yosemite! 



104 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Ye are the grand-voiced singers of 

The great Republic! Ye echo 
Thro 1 the years the hymn of 

Freedom and of power; 
The song of union and of peace 

For aye is in thy troubled flow I 

Loom! loom, ye far cold summits of 

The West! Cloud-girt, snow -cr own' d, shine 
on ! 

Keep watch toward the dawn; 
Keep watch toward the night! 

Loom! loom, ye silent sentinels, 
O'er Freedom's vast dominions! 

Move on, world of the Occident, 

Move on! Thy footfalls thro' the globe 

Are heard as thou mar chest 
Into that larger day 

Whose dawn lights up the armored front 
In Cuba and the Philippines. 



105 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



JULY. 



The air without has taken fever; 
Fast I feel the beating of its pulse. 
The leaves are twisted on the maple, 
In the corn the autumn 's premature; 
The weary butterfly hangs waiting 
For a breath to waft him thither at 
The touch, but falls, like truth unheeded, 
Into dust-blown grass and hollyhocks. 

The air without is blinding dusty; 
Cool I feel the breezes blow; I see 
The sunlight, crowded on the porch, grow 
Smaller till absorbed in shadow; and 
The far blue hills are changed to gray, and 
Twilight lingers in the woods between; 
And now I hear the shower dancing 
In the cornfield and the thirsty grass. 



106 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



GONE. 



Gone I leaving all her bright 
Hopes scattered, shell-like, on 
The shore of life. Gone! gone! 

Like a white dove in flight. 

There hangs the robe she wore 

In matchless harmony 

And perfect purity: 
She needs it now no more. 

She's but a memory 

Of kind deeds and of 

A life that was all love. 
How sweet her rest must be. 

Beneath the leaves that fall 
From autumn branches bare 
To slumber with her there, 

In answer to her call I 



107 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



EVENTIDE. 



Beyond the jar-off waves the seagulls cry, 

As twilight shades 

The emerald glades 
And zephyrs waft the strains of nightbirds nigh; 

Now sinks the sun — 

Its course is run — 

The day is done — 
// fades in the gold of the western sky. 

Now high, in raven files, the mustering crows 

Their wings display, 

Thro' ether way, 
And transient gleams and saffron bars disclose, 

And beauties throng 

The sky along; 

And bugs of song 
Now pipe among the vales of dew-kissed rose. 

Now Night, on high, her spangled robe unfurls, 
Unveils the moon — 
The silver moon — 



108 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

The orbs, the milky-ways, the circling worlds; 

Now bright, sublime, 

In clusters shine 

The stars divine, 
And 'cross the twinkling void the meteor whirls. 



109 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



A RHAPSODY. 



Oh, to loiter where 

The sea breaks white 

In wild delight 

And throws her kisses evermore, 

A slave unto the palm-set shore! 

Oh, to wander where 

The gray moss elings 
And south wind sings 
Forever, low, enchantingly , 
Of islands girdled by the sea! 

Oh, T 11 journey back 

Some day; some day 

Til go away, — 

Forsake my land of mountain pine, 

To win the heart that captured mine ! 



no 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO THE CROW. 



Caw, caw, caw, 

Thou bird of ebon hue, 

Above the slumberous valley spread in flight, 

On wings that flash defiance back at light, 

A speck against the blue, 

A -vanishing. 

Caw, caw, caw, 

Thou bird of common sense, 

Far, far in lonely distance leaving me, 

Deluded, with a shout of mockery 

For all my diligence 

At evening. 



in 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE CALL OF THE WILD. 



Tm tired of the gloom 
In a four-walled room; 
Heart-weary, I sigh 
For the open sky, 
And the solitude 
Of the greening wood; 
Where the bluebirds call, 
And the sunbeams fall, 
And the daisies lure 
The soul to be pure. 

Tm tired of the life 
In the ways of strife; 
Heart-weary, I long 
For the river' s song, 
And the murmur of rills 
In the breezy hills; 
Where the pipe of Pan — 
The hairy half-man — 
The bright silence breaks 
By the sleeping lakes. 

112 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



EYES OF BLUE AND BROWN. 



Two eyes met mine 
Of heav'n's own blue- 

Forgetmenots 
Seen under dew. 

My heart straightway 

Refused to woo 
All other eyes 

Except those two. 

Days came and went 
A whole year thro\ 

And still I loved 
Two eyes of blue. 

But when one day 
Two eyes of brown, 

In olive set 

Beneath a crown 



113 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Of browner hair, 

Met mine, behold, 
The eyes beneath 

The shining gold, 

Love-lit and loved 

In days of yore, 
Grew dim, and were 

Sky -blue no more! 



114 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TWILIGHT. 



Twilight, fold me, let me rest within 

Thy dusky wings; 
For I am weary, weary. Lull me with 

Thy whisperings, 
So tender; let my sleep be fraught with dreams 

Of beauteous things. 



"5 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE RURAL MAID. 



Said I, "Sweet maid, I do not know your name, 
And you, most sure, a stranger are to me; 

But birds sing sweeter for your presence here, — 
My heart is captured by your witchery." 

She fled from me, 
In dread of me. 

Said I, " Sweet maid, I did not know your name, 
And you, most sure, a stranger were to me; 

But birds sing sadder for your absence here, — 
My heart is broken by your witchery." 



ri6 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN FOET 



THE EVENING STAR. 



Behold, evening's bright star, 
Like a door left ajar 
In God's mansion afar, 

Over the mountain's crest 
Throws a beautiful ray, — 
A sweet kiss to the day 

As he sinks to his rest. 



117 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE BLUE JAY. 



The silence of the golden afternoon 
Is broken by the chatter of the jay. 
What season finds him when he is not gay, 
Light-hearted, noisy, singing out of tune, 
High-crested, blue as is the sky of June? 
'Tis autumn when he comes; the hazy air, 
Half -hiding like a veil, lies everywhere, 
Full of the memories of summer soon 
To fade; leaves, losing hold upon the tree, 

Fly helpless in the wintry wind's unrest; 

The goldenrod is burning low and fitfully; 

The squirrel leaves his leafy summer rest, 

Descends and gathers up the nuts that drop, 

When lightly shaken, from the hick'ry top. 



118 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



WHEN MOLLY BLOWS THE DINNER 
HORN. 



'Tis twelve o'clock in Possum Flat; 
The cabbage steams, and bacon's fat; 
The bread is made of last year's corn — 
When Molly blows the dinner -horn. 

The shadows lengthen north and south; 
The water wells up in your mouth; 
You're neither sober nor forlorn, 
When Molly blows the dinner -horn. 

A quiet falls, the smoke curls up 
Like incense from a censor cup; 
It makes you glad that you were born, 
When Molly blows the dinner-horn. 

The cur, erstwhile stretched in a snore, 
Lays stout siege to the kitchen door; 
Nor will he raise it, or be gone, 
When Molly blows the dinner-horn. 



119 



iLEX POSEY, 'nil-: CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE PLOWEB OF TULLEDEGA, 



/ know a Tulledegan flower rare 

Thai lifts between the /inks a blushing face, 
And doth with every ■wind its sweetness share 

That bloweth over its wild dwelling-place. 

It outliers beauty where the storms are rough 

And clings devoted to the rugged bluff. 

Far 'bove its sisters in the vale below t 
It swings its censor like a ruby star, 

And thither all the days of summer go 

The mountain bees fierce knights of love and 

war — 

To seal in noontide hour -O hour of bliss! — 
Each tender VOW of true love with a kiss. 

And often, like a betiuteous blossom blown 
By careless winds o'er heaven's opal floor, 

The Butterfly entreats it, "Be my own"; 

And never -would in valleys wander more. 

Content to hang for aye enchanted there 

Beside the frowning summit bleak and bare. 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

u Come sit with me in my green cedar tent, 
Bright Flozver," said Tulledega long ago, 

Whilst leaning o'er his lofty battlement, 
And wooed I lie /lower from the vale below. 

In vain the Oktahutchee pleaded, "Stay: 
Abide here by my mossy brink alway" 

A nd flashed on thro' the folded hills. ' l A bide, ' ' 
The Valley said, "Upon my verdant breast." 

11 'Tis bleak and cold up there," the Thrushes 
cried. 
"Nay, nay, I love the Tulledega best" 

Replied the lovely Flower as it went 

High up the Mountain' s rugged battlement. 

"Alas! " the River sighed, and cast a tear 
Upon a slender reed; while overhead 

A passing cloud cast down a shadow drear 
Upon the valley green in sunshine spread; 

A nd softly sweet from every feathered throat 

To music set, escaped a plaintive note. 

A chilling breeze came o'er the forest trees, 
And all the leafy branches shook with cold; 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Stechupco* blew such tender melodies 

As Pan blew from his oaten lute of old, 
On fair Arcadia's sunny slopes, when Echo 
Loved the youth Narcissus to her sorrow. 

Abide, lovely Flower, in your home 
Of pine and cedar on the mountain height; 

To come and go, as I have come and gone 
So often before, — let that be my delight. 

' Tis May, and winds that blow from where you 
are, 

Tell me you hang now like a ruby star. 

* Stechupco — A legendary being, very tall, who inhabits the 
woods and blows on a reed. The Indians believe that if you can 
get a sight of this person, you will become a great hunter. 



122 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



COYOTE. 



A jew days more, and then 
There 11 be no secret glen, 
Or hollow, deep and dim, 
To hide or shelter him. 

And on the prairie jar, 
Beneath the beacon star 
On evenings darkening shore, 
Til hear him nevermore. 

For where the tepee smoke 

Curled up oj yore, the stroke 

Oj hammers rings all day, 

And grim Doom shouts, " Make way!" 

The immemorial hush 
Is broken by the rush 
Oj armed enemies 
Unto the utmost seas. 



L2 3 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE MOCKING BIRD. 



Whether spread in flight, 

Or perched upon the swinging bough, 
Whether day or night, 

He sings as he is singing now, — 
Till evry leaf upon the tree 
Seems dripping with his melody! 

Hear him! hear him! 

As up he springeth — 

As high he wingeth 
From roof or limb! 

If you are sad, 

Go cry it out! 
If you are glad, 

Go laugh and shout! 

Hear him! What heart can shut him out? 

He hath a song for every mood, 

For every song an interlude, 
To dry the tear or stem the shout! 



124 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Whether you work, whether you rest, 

Hark I listen I hear him sing! 
As careless as he builds the nest 

For his mate in the spring! 



"5 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



ON A MARBLE MEDALLION OF 
DANTE. 



Close-hooded as a monk; 
High-cheeked as a Red Man; 
High-nosed as a Hebrew; 
Full-lipped as a Greek god. 

The character revealed 
In this bit of white stone 
Is such as is not stamped 
Upon a human face 
Once in a thousand years. 



126 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

VERSES WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE 
OF McINTOSH.* 



Oh, carol, carol, early thrush, 

A song 
Where Oktahutchee* s waters rush 

Along! 
In dewy bowers perched to greet 

The dawn, 
Sing on, songster ever sweet, 

Sing on! 

And, listening to thy ecstacy, 

Oh, let me fancy that I hear, 
An echo of that voice so dear, 

Thrown on the morning air by thee! 

An echo of the voice 

Of Mcintosh, my friend 
And Indian brother, true, 

So true unto the end. 

*Col. D. N. McIntosh was an influential member of the Creek 
tribe. His grave is in a little Indian cemetery under big oak trees, 
near the Oktahutchee. 



127 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Carol, carol, sing 

O bird of melody; 
Say as sweet a thing 

Of him as he of thee! 

Blossom, blossom, swing 

Thy flowers lovingly, 
Sweet wild rose of spring, 

Here where his ashes lie! 

As one by one the cold days pass, 

And Life and Love come on a-wing 
In early sens' ous days of spring, 

Creep gently hither, modest grass, 

Concealing every ugly cleft, 

And cover up the wreck that's left 
By winter rude and pitiless! 

O April beauty, then, come too, 

In snow-white bonnet, sister true 
Of charity and tenderness I 

Ye oaks that spread broad branches at the 
Wind's behest, 

Be thou his monument, the watchers o'er his 
rest! 



128 




FARM HOME OF ALEX POSEY 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE LEGEND OF THE RED ROSE 



The Red Rose once was white 

As any flake of snow can be; 
The sum of her delight 

Was knowledge of her purity — 
As ev'ry Bee and nodding Poppy knows. 
But, in a luckless hour, 

There bloomed outside the garden wall 
A common wildwood flow'r, 

So wondrous fair and sweet and tall, 
That envy flushed the white face of the Rose! 



129 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



WHAT I ASK OF LIFE. 



/ ask no more of life than sunset's gold; 
A cottage hid in songbird's neighborhood, 
Where I may sing and do a little good, 

For love and pleasant memories when Vm old. 

If life hath this in store for me — 
A spot where coarse souls enter not, 

Or strife — Tm sure there cannot be 
On earth a fairer heaven sought. 



130 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



AUTUMN. 



In the dreamy silence 
Of the afternoon, a 
Cloth of gold is woven 
Over wood and prairie; 
And the jaybird, newly 
Fallen from the heaven. 
Scatters cordial greetings, 
And the air is filled with 
Scarlet leaves, that, dropping, 
Rise again, as ever, 
With a useless sigh for 
Rest — and it is Autumn. 



13 1 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO THE CENTURY PLANT. 



Thou art gloriously 
Crowned at last with beauty; 
And thy waxen blossoms, 
Born of nameless patience, 
Charm away the desert 's 
Dreariness, as some great 
Truth a benefactor y s 
Cast in persecution 
Sheds splendid glory 
In another age. 



132 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE SUNSHINE OF LIFE. 



The smile of a mother, 
The smile of a father, 
The smile of a brother, 
The smile of a sister, 

The smile of a sweetheart, 
When fondly you've kissed her, 

The moment ere you 'part, 
The sweet smile of a wife, 

And the smile of a friend 

Who proves true to the end, 
Are the sunshine of life. 



*33 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO A SNOWFLAKE. 



This is no home for thee, 

Child of the winter cloud. 
I question God why He, 

In blessing, has allowed 
Thee to escape, unless 

It were to have thee bear 
To Earth, in sinfulness, 

A sweet, white pardon there. 



134 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



RED MAN'S PLEDGE OF PEACE. 



/ pledge you by the moon and sun, 
As long as stars their course shall run, 
Long as day shall meet my view, 
Peace shall reign between us two, 

I pledge you by those peaks of snow 
As long as streams to ocean flow, 
Long as years their youth renew, 
Peace shall reign between us two. 

I came from mother soil and cave,* 
You came from pathless sea and wave, 
Strangers fought our battles through, — 
Peace shall reign between us two. 



*The Creeks have a legend about their having originated from the 
caves and earth. 



135 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO A COMMON FLOWER. 



Thy waxen blooms of yesterday 

Today all wither and decay. 

But, oh, so sweet a life is thine! 
Never knowing ill words spoken, 
Sorrow of a heart that's broken, 

So full of days unlike to mine. 



136 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TWO CLOUDS. 



Away out west, one day, 
Two clouds were seen astray. 
One came up from the sea, 

Afar unto the south, 
And drifted wearily; 

One came out of the north. 
Away out west that day, 
A town was swept away. 



137 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO A SEA SHELL. 



What sea-maid's longings dwell 
Upon thy lips, Shell, 

Washed to my feet from the depths of the sea ? 
Listening, I hold thee to my ear, 
But the secret that I would hear 

Blends with the ocean's mystery. 



138 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



IN VAIN. 



Blow I O Wind of the sea! 
Oh, blow! until I see 
The ship that went away 
Sail safe into the bay! 

Wind of the sea! Wind of the sea! 
What tidings dost thou bring to me? 

But there's no reply; 
There's no sail in sight; 
And the years go by 
And her hair grows white. 



139 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

MEMORIES. 
(Inscribed to George R. Hall.) 



What sweet and tender memories — 

What joys and griefs are yours and mine ! 

Hands rest that smote the iv'ry keys, 
And still, the lips that sang divine. 

Dear ones, near ones have wended 
Homeward through the vale of tears; 

The voice that charmed has blended 
With the silence of the years. 

O'er lips that cannot say, 

O'er hearts that cannot beat, 
The sky bends blue today, 

And flowers blossom sweet. 

Tho' far apart we've drifted, Hall, 

' Tween you and me there's but a single river 

And but a single mountain-wall — 

'Tween Rose and Jim and us, the vast For- 
ever! 



140 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



ON THE HILLS OF DAWN. 



Behold, the morning-glory' s sky-blue cup 
Is mine wherewith to drink the nectar up 
That morning spills of silver dew, 
And song upon the winds that woo 
And sigh their vows 
Among the boughs! 

Behold, Tm rich in diamonds rare, 
And pearls, and breathe a golden air; 
My room is filled with shattered beams 
Of light; my life is one of dreams, 
In my hut on 
The hills of dawn. 



141 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



A VISION OF REST. 



Some day this quest 
Shall cease; 
Some day, 
For aye, 
This heart shall rest 
In peace. 
Sometimes — ofttimes — / almost feel 
The calm upon my senses steal, 
So soft, and all but hear 
The dead leaves rustle near 
And sigh to be 
At rest with me. 
Though I behold 

The ashen branches tossing to and fro, 
Somehow I only vaguely know 
The wind is rude and cold. 



142 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

ENSAPAHUTCHE. 

(Gar Creek.) 



Now complaining and cross , 
Through the reeds and the moss 
I come down with a roar 
To the green fields before. 
From the hills of the old Doughty ranch, 
From the valleys of pine where I branch, 
From the hollows and coves where I lie 
In the shade of the precipice high, 
Through the days of the unclouded sky. 

And I flow, 
As I go 

Through the hills, 
Into rills, 
Into many a pool, 
Overshadowed and cool, 
Where the white lily-bloom 
Is a light in the gloom. 



M3 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Down the slope of the wild mountain-side 
Come the grasses athirst to my tide, 
By the Cardinal led aright. 
Far away, like the roar in the shell of 

the sea, 
The sad voice of the pine on the crag 

answers me, 
As I fall on the rocks at night. 



144 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



AT THE SIRENS' CALL. 



/ fancy that I sit beside 

The shore of slumbers' phantom sea 
And see sweet visions die, and hear 

The siren voices calling me. 

Am I a shell cast on the shore 

Of Time's illimitable sea, 
To hear and whisper evermore 

The music of Eternity? 



145 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



KATE AND LOU. 



So wondrous fair are Kate and Lou, 
And both return my love so true, 
I cannot choose between the two. 
And so the rolling years go by, 
Nor ever halt to question why 
I cannot bring myself to woo 
Sweet Kate and not love fair Lou, too. 

So wondrous fair are Kate and Lou, 
And both return my love so true, 
I cannot choose between the two, 
And so, as the swift years roll by, 
Alike Til love them till I die; 
For I can't bring myself to woo 
Fair Lou and not love sweet Kate, too. 



146 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



NATURES BLESSINGS. 



Tw mine to be in love with life, 
And mine to hear the robins sing; 
' Tis mine to live apart from strife, 
And kneel to flowers blossoming — 
To all things fair, 

As at a shrine — 
To drink the air 
As I ivould wine. 

To Love Tve built a temple here, 

Beneath the boughs of oak and pine, 
Beside a spring that all the year 
Tells of a harmony divine. 
I own no creeds 

Sweet Love beside — 
My spirit's needs 
Are satisfied. 



147 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO THE SUMMER CLOUD. 



Ever straying, 
Never staying, 

Never resting, e'er an aimless rover. 
Wind, Shelley's spirit rise to thee, 
Up from the cruel sea; 
And dost thou bear it ever thro' 
The vast unbounded blue, 
Ever ranging, 
Ever changing, 

Ever yet the same the wide world over! 



148 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



HOTGUN ON THE DEATH OF 
YADEKA HARJO. 



11 Well so," Hot gun he say, 

"My oV -time frien\ Yadeka Harjo, he 
Was died the other day, 

Art they was no oV -timer left but me. 

"Hotulk Emathla he 

Was go to be good Injin long time 'go, 
An 1 Woxie Harjoche 

Been dead ten years or twenty, maybe so. 
All had to die at las 1 ; 

I live long time, but now my days was few; 
'Fore long poke-weeds an grass 

Be growin' all aroun 1 my grave-house, too." 

Wolf Warrior he listen close, 

An 1 Kono Harjo pay close 'tention, too; 
Tookpafka Micco he almos 1 

Let his pipe go out a time or two. 



149 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



LOWENA. 



Blue hills between us lie, 

And rivers broad and deep; 
But here, as there, a bird 

Is singing me to sleep, 
And love has bridged the mountains blue 

And all the streams between us two. 

Kind friends, they bid me stay 
And make their homes my own; 

But they cannot be you 
To me, and Fm alone 

Amid the music sweet, 
And shall be till we meet. 

However kind the friends, 

The scenes hoivever fair, 
My heart returns to thee, 

Not happy anywhere 
Save when thou art near to share 

Life's light of joy or shade of care. 



150 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



DRIFTING APART. 



Upon Love's sea, our barques shall sail 

No more together; 
The darkening sky and rising gale 

Bring stormy weather. 

The cruel Fates, at last, sweetheart, 

Our love must sever, — 
Must furl our sails, drift us apart 

For aye and ever. 

I pray a sunny port be thine, 

When storm is over; 
I know whatever lot be mine, 

Vm still thy lover. 



151 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



'TIS SWEET. 



' Tis sweet, so sweet, when work is o'er, 
At eve, to hear the voice of love 

Shout welcome from the cottage door, 
Embowered on the hill above. 

From furrowed field, where all the day 
You toil and sweat for little bread, 

'Tis sweet to see the child at play 
Drop toys and come with arms outspread. 



152 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



EARTH'S LILIES AND GOD'S. 



Earth's starry lilies sink to rest, 
All folded in the mere at night; 

But God's slip back, and slumber best 
Sky-hidden in the broad daylight. 



153 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO YAHOLA, ON HIS FIRST BIRTH- 
DAY. 



The sky has put her bluest garment on, 
And gently brushed the snowy clouds away; 

The robin trills a sweeter melody. 
Because you are just one year old today. 

The wind remembers, in his sweet refrains, 
Away, away up in the tossing trees, 

That you came in the world a year ago, 
A nd earth is filled with pleasant harmonies, 

And all things seem to say, 
"Just one year old today." 



154 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO OUR BABY, LAUGHING, 



// / were dead, sweet one, 

So innocent, 
I know you'd laugh the same 

In merriment, 
And pat my pallid face 

With chubby hands and fair, 
And think me living, as 

You'd tangle up my hair. 

If I were dead, loved one, 

So young and fair, 
If I were laid beneath 

The grasses there, 
My face would haunt you for 

A while — a day, maybe — 
And then you would forget, 

And not remember me. 



iS5 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE DEER. 



From out the folded hills, 

That lie beneath a thin blue veil, 
There comes a deer to drink 

From Limbo's waters in the dale. 

Then flies he back into 

The hills; and sitting here, I dream 
And watch, as vain as he, 

My image lying in the stream. 



156 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE ATHLETE AND THE PHILOSO 
PHER. 



In Greece, an athlete boasted once 
That he could outswim anyone. 

"So can a goose, 11 remarked a sage, 
With eyes alive with wholesome fun. 

The athlete boasted on, "And I 
Can deeper dive than any man. 11 

"So can a bullfrog, 11 said the sage. 
But, heedless still, the fool began, 

* 'And more than that, can higher kick 
Than any living man in Greece. 11 

"And so can any jackass, 11 said 
The sage. The athlete held his peace. 



*57 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



WHERE THE RIVERS MEET. 



Lot what a vivid picture here, 

Of sin and purity, 
Here where the rivers join their 

Floods and journey to the sea. 

A dirty, earthly look hath one, 
Reflects not back the sky; 
But mark you, on the other's tide 
The clouds are passing by! 



15S 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



A REVERIE. 



The sky bends over in a sweet 
Forgiveness; earth is filled with light; 
And mellow autumn hues, soft winds 
That croon of summer lands; and thro' 
The brooding stillness comes a strain 
Of music, and, as leaves are swept 
Upon the river's tide away, 
My thoughts drift off and on to God. 



159 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



IN THE MOONLIT WOOD. 



/ dream that it is snowing, 
And, waking, do but find 

The moonbeams softly glowing 
Thro' branches intertwined. 



160 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



LIFE'S MYSTERY. 



I wander by the shore of life, 

Enchanted by the voices from the sea; 

Forever trying — like a child — 

In vain, to understand its mystery. 



161 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



MOTHER AND BABY. 



Tired at length of crying, 

Laughing, cooing, sighing, 
The baby lies so quVt and still, 

Scarce breathing in his sleep; 
The mother watches, half-inclined 

To hide her face and weep. 



162 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



INGERSOLL. 



When love and the fireside inspired, 
Words dropped from his eloquent lips 

Like music from the golden lyre 
Swept by Apollo's finger-tips. 



163 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



WHAT MY SOUL WOULD BE. 



What mountain glens afar 
And woodland valleys are 
To echoes in the air, 
My soul would be 
To harmony. 



164 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



AN OUTCAST. 



Pursued across the waning year, 
By winds that chase with lifted spear, 
A leaf, blood-stained, fell spent at last 
Upon my bosom, poor Outcast! 



165 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



SUNSET. 



By coivard clouds forgot, 
By yonder 's sunset glow, 

The Day, in battle shot, 
Lies bleeding, weak, and low. 



166 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE HAUNTED VALLEY.* 



Ever, somewhere in the boundless blue, 
Floats a cloud, like a ship at sea; 

Ever a shadow lies on the hills, 

And a wind from the south blows free. 

Ever is heard the voice of the pines 
As they weep o'er a long-lost love, 

And ever, like the path of a star, 
Floivs the stream with hills above. 

Ever the glens betray, passing sweet, 
Secrets of brown lovers no more; 

Ever the huntsman lingering there 
At eve hears the dip of the oar; 

Behold on .the moonlit wave afar, 
Two vague forms in a light canoe, 

That is lost anon in the shadow 
Where the river bends out of view. 

*The Haunted Valley is a spot in the Tulledega hills along the 
Oktahutchee. The legend is that the spirits of the lost lovers haunt 
the valley and stream. 

167 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



A VISION. 



In pensive mood she stood, 
In garments white like snow, 

Beside the darksome wood. 
Amid the twilight glow; 

As if she held communion there 

With spirits in the fading air. 

And, loath to break the spell — 
The sweet enchantment that 

She seemed to love so well — 
/ backward stept; thereat, 

The beauteous vision fled from me, 

In strange and silent mystery. 



168 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



MORNING. 



The cloud-dikes burst, and lot 
The night is swept away 

And drowned in overflow 
Of Light at break of day! 



169 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE OPEN SKY. 



/ look up at the open sky, 

And all the evils in 
My heart the instant pale and die, 

For, lot I cannot sin! 



70 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE POET'S SONG. 



The poet sings but fragments of 

A high-born melody — 

A few stray notes and castaways 

Of perfect harmony 

That come to him like murmurs from 

The sea of mystery. 



171 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



MIDSUMMER. 



/ see the millet combing gold 

From summer sun, 
In hussar caps, all day; 

And brown quails run 
Far down the dusty way, 

Fly up and whistle from the wold; 

Sweet delusions on the mountains, 
Of hounds in chase, 

Beguiling every care 
Of life apace, 

Though only fevered air 
That trembles, and dies in mounting. 



172 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



A SIMILE. 



Like bits of broken glass, 
Chance scatters in the sun, 
Our deeds reflect the light 
We carry in the world. 



173 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



JUNE. 



O maid, of shape divine, 
Who holds, in aet to sup, 

An over-brimming cup 
Of sensuous sunshine. 



174 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



A VALENTINE. 



Your cheeks are garden-spots 

Of Touch-me-nots; 

Your hair the gathered beams 

Of sunny dreams; 

And that your soul looks thro' 

Are hits of fallen blue. 

No wall hath circled yet, 

Nor dews have wet, 

A red rose like your lips. 

To steal sweet kisses from your brow, 

A lightsome zephyr I would be, — 

A brook to murmur you a vow 

Of love and constancy. 



175 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



MOUNT SHASTA. 



Behold, the somber pines have pitched their tents 
At Shasta's base, like hosts of Night; 

For aye besieging in his battlements — 
For aye hi vain — their monarch, Light! 

Though seas dry up and empty deserts bloom; 

Though races come and pass away 
From earth, it still, it still is seen to loom, 

And to flash back God's smile for aye! 



176 




CHILDREN OF ALEX POSEY 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



PITY. 



/ pity him who never dreams, 
Who has no castles in the air. 

Denied my fancies, life would be 
A burden more than I coidd bear. 

I pity him who never hears 

The high-born perfect harmony 

That haunts the air of loneliness: 
How very dead his soul must be! 

I pity him who cannot feel 

The thrill of rapture but in lust; 

Who cannot rise above himself, 
And only lives because he must. 



T 77 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



FRAIL BEAUTY 



The raven hair of youth turns gray; 

Bright eyes grow dim; soft cheeks grow pale; 
The joyous heart becomes less gay: 

For beauty is a thing so frail, 
If once Times fingers touch it in caress, 
It droops, and loses all its loveliness. 



178 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



TO A HUMMINGBIRD. 



Now here, now there; 

E'er poised somewhere 

In sensuous air. 

I only hear, I cannot see, 

The matchless wings that beareth thee. 

Art thou some frenzied poet's thought, 

That God embodied and forgot ? 



179 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



MEANINGLESS. 



Till baby lips have spoken "papa, mama" 
There is no meaning in the words at all; 

The house is but a pile of brick or lumber, 
Till baby feet have pattered thro 1 the hall. 



1 80 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



THE CONQUERORS. 



The Ccesars and the Alexanders were 
But men gone mad, who ran about a while 
Upsetting kingdoms, and were slain in turn 
Like rabid dogs, or died in misery. 
Assassins laid in wait for Caesar; wine, 
Amid the boasts of victory, cut short 
The glory of the Macedonian; 
Deception cooled the fever Pompey had; 
Death was dealt to Phyrrus by a woman 's 
Hand; Themistocles and Hannibal drank 
Deep of poison in their desolation. 



181 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



k GLIMPSE OF SPRING. 



Overcast is the sky, 
And the wind passes by, 

Breathing blight. 
Yet, afar in the gloom, 
In the desolate room, 

Cold and white, 
Where December is king, 
I hear a lone bird sing. 

And the gloom, 
Ere my glad lips can say, 
From the earth melts away, 
In the warm smile of Spring, 
And the frosty winds bring 

Sweet perfume. 
In the vast waste of snow, 
I see the roses bloom. 



182 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



MOTHERS SONG. 



/ hear a distant melody, 

And years come crowding back to me, 
Thro' vistas dim of memory, 

A s ships to haven from the sea; 

Each freighted with the dreams of youth 
And moor them in the restless bay 

About my heart a while, and then 
Each sails away — so far away! 

I hear it ever; 
It ceases never; 
On land and sea 
It follows me, 

So soft and low and far away, 

Like echoes dying in the folded hills. 

I hear it there, go where I may, 
A cure for all the sad heart's ills. 



183 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



ODE TO SEQUOYAH.* 



The names of Waitie and Boudinot — 
The valiant warrior and gifted sage — 

And other Cherokees, may be forgot, 

But thy name shall descend to every age; 

The mysteries enshrouding Cadmus' name 

Cannot obscure thy claim to fame. 

The people's language cannot perish — nay, 
When from the face of this great continent 

Inevitable doom hath swept away 
The last memorial — the last fragment 

Of tribes, — some scholar learned shall pore 

Upon thy letters, seeking ancient lore. 

Some bard shall lift a voice in praise of thee, 
hi moving numbers tell the world how men 

Scoffed thee, hissed thee, charged with lunacy I 
And who could not give 'nough honor when 

At length, in spite of jeers, of want and need, 

Thy genius shaped a dream into a deed. 

^Sequoyah —The Cherokee who invented the Cherokee alphabet. 
,84 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

By cloud-capped summits in the boundless 
west,^ 

Or mighty river rolling to the sea, 
Where'er thy footsteps led thee on that quest, 

Unknown, rest thee, illustrious Cherokee! 

t Sequoyah wandered away from his tribe, and died somewhere in 
the southwest part of the United States or in Mexico. 



185 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



POIIALTON LAKE. 



Thick heavy leaves of emerald lie 

Upon Pohaltons waters blue, 

Overspread with lustrous drops of dew, 
Dashed from my oar, as I glide by 

In my swift light canoe. 

Large water-lilies, virtue-pure, 

Bright stars that with Pohalton fell 
From heaven where the angels dwell, 

Drive back the shadows that obscure, 
And, siren-like, my fancies lure. 

Huge frightened turtles disappear; 
And as the ripples widen o'er 
The lake toward the reedy shore, 

The dragon-fly, a wise old seer, 
Drops down upon the log to pore — 

Unmindful of the moccasin 

That, swift with darting tongue, slips by 
And climbs a sunny drift to dry, 

Reposing half awake, his tawny skin 
Scarce revealed to the searching eye. 

186 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

And, ever and anon, the breeze 
From piney mountains far away, 
Steals in; and waters kiss the day, 

And break the image of the trees 

That looking downward, sigh dismay. 

The wood spirit* is wandering near, 
Wrapt in old legend mystery; 
I drift alone, for none but he 

And nature's self are native here 
Of me to know. But now I see 

The patient heron by the shore 
Put down his lifted leg and fly, 
While echoes from the woods reply 

To each uncanny scream, low o'er 
The lake into the evening sky. 

Vast brooding silence crowds around; 
Dark vistas lead my eye astray, 
Among vague shapes beyond the day 

Upon the lake, I hear no sound; 
I go ashore, and hasten 'way. 

*The Stechupco. 

187 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



HAPPY TIMES FOR ME AN' SAL. 



Hear the happy jays a-singin ; 

Leaves a-driftin' in the medder; 

See the ' simmons turnin' redder, 
An' the farmer boy a-grinnin' 
At his copper toes. 

Happy times fer me ari Sal; 
Happy times fer Jim an' Al; 
We've raised a sumshus crop, 
An' we're upon the top, 

In our new-bought clothes. 

More an' more it's gittin' cooler; 
Frost is makin' purtier pictures 
On the winder -panes. By victers! 

I am feelin' like a ruler 

Over all this earth. 

Happy times fer me an' Sal; 
Happy times fer Jim an' Al; 
We've raised a sumshus crop, 



188 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

An were upon the top, 
Settin' by the herth. 

Nights are havin' longer hours; 

Sleep is surely growin 1 finer; 

Dreams becomin 1 sweeter, kiner, 
Since the season of the flowers. 
Winter days fer me. 

Lots o } time fer liberal thought; 
Lots o> time to worry not, 
When snow's knee-deep outdoors, 
An 1 driftin on the moors, 
Like a silver sea. 



189 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 



DEATH OF A WINDOW PLANT. 



The air was chill, 

The leaves were hushed, 

The moon in grandeur 

Climbed the spangled 

Walls of heaven, 

When the angel came 

That whispers death; 

Unseen, unheard, 

To lisp that word, and 

Leave my window 

Sad when night should 

Blossom into day. 

The moon had ivaned, 

And each bright star, 

Like visions of a 

Dream. Up rose the 

Sun on wings of 

Gold, and soared thro 1 fields 

Of light serene; 

All earth seemed gay, 

And banished from it 

190 



ALEX POSEY, THE Cl'EEK INDIAN POET 



Sorrow; birds sang 
Songs of summer 
In the clear sweet sky. 
But I was sad, 
And song of bird 
Nor sky of splendor 
Could for one brief 
Moment bring a 
Solace to my heart. 
I mourned, and all 
Was dark and drear 
Within my chamber, 
Lorn and bare, where 
Sweetness was and 
Beauty for a day. 
My window-friend, 
I'll dig thy grave, 
Inter thee grandly. 
No sod shall lie, 
Nor blossom there 
Thy kindred flowers. 
Within my soul's 
Deep core is built 



[9 



ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 

Thy tomb enduring. 
Ah, morn shall kiss 
Thee nevermore 
In purple of dawn; 
And stars shall rise 
And twinkle in 
Vain and pass away. 
Should all thy race 
Thus disappear, 
In death forsake the 
Soil in which you 
Grew, the world would 
Then be sad as I. 



192 



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